


I'm profoundly in love with Pandora

by tahariel



Series: Backseat 'verse [18]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, Cock Rings, Comeplay, Cultural Differences, Culture Shock, Dom/sub, Dry Humping, Fur Kink, Gloves, Kinbaku (Japanese Rope Bondage), M/M, Massage, Masturbation, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Phone Sex, Rope Bondage, Self-Bondage, Shibari, Vibrator, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-25
Updated: 2012-08-26
Packaged: 2017-11-10 17:54:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/469065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tahariel/pseuds/tahariel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik may have to go away for a business trip, but that doesn't mean he stops taking care of Charles' needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is - unusually for Backseat - going to be chaptered. Gulp! This 'verse just keeps growing on me XD
> 
> In a shameless self-plug, if you haven't seen it my RBB went up last week and is listed in my works on AO3 :3

Erik checks into his hotel in the early evening Dubai time, dragging his suitcase behind him on a magnetic leash, his belongings held still inside it by the tight-bound wire he laid across them, meshing them in place. It’s a relief to get into the air-conditioning, out of the arid desert heat and the lingering sunshine - it’s blistering out there and he’s been awake for over twenty-four hours, finds it enervating instead of blissful, the way he usually would. He never sleeps on planes, the feel of all that metal surrounded by all that nothing is unnerving, but more than that the absence of Charles’ gentle touch in his mind has left him uneasy and uncharacteristically anxious, half his thoughts casting themselves about for his submissive and worrying when they don’t find him there.

It was a long fourteen hours on that plane, regardless of the excellent service in Business Class.

There’s nobody else waiting, so it’s only a question of walking to the desk and handing over his reservation papers. The woman behind the check-in desk smiles at him as she taps at her tablet computer with rapid-beat fingers, and Erik tries to make some sort of accommodating expression at her as he takes his key card and whatever other papers they’ve pressed on him, but he’s pretty sure it comes out as more of a grimace. 

Everything after that is a bit of a blur, exhaustion getting the best of him. Erik waits, half-dozing, for an elevator; the ride up is just as surreal, the lift smooth enough that the only sense of movement is that of the passing metal around him. He barely notices his surroundings. They’re probably beautiful - the entire elevator is built of glass, and it opens onto a panoramic view over the city as he rises up into the higher floors of the hotel, lights twinkling below among the sand and palm trees. Erik leans his forehead against the window and leaves a greasy smear, yawning without covering his mouth. Emma would be ashamed. Correction - Moira would be ashamed. Emma would be irritated and threaten to force-imprint some manners on him if she caught him at it again.

Probably better let them know he’s arrived safely, he thinks idly, then dismisses it just as easily. He’s a grown man. They’ll cope.

When he gets out of the elevator he has to glance at his paperwork a few times before he remembers the room number, and it is with deep relief that Erik finally finds his room and uses his powers rather than the key card to open the door. It takes a moment or two of fumbling with the magnetic reader before he finds the resonance to trip the sensor, but then the lock beeps, the light turns green, and he can go inside and close the door behind him, between him and the rest of the world.

The room he’s been given is lovely. The carpet under his feet is thick and springy, the walls are painted some sort of off-white that feels expensive rather than generic, and the windows are enormous - whoever was in here last, probably the cleaner, left the curtains wide open, and the whole city view is open in front of him, a marina off to the right and to the left the lights and high-rise buildings of Dubai itself, cars and people and all manner of metal moving around, taking advantage of the dying light and heat. Erik dumps his suitcase at the foot of his bed and raises his hands high enough to wave the curtains closed, the metal rings sweeping the brocaded fabric together like the finale of a theatre performance, shutting out the light.

Everything in him is heavy, from his eyelids to his fingertips to the sway of his head dragging forward with exhaustion. Erik forces himself to kick his shoes off before collapsing backward across the width of the bed perpendicular to where he ought to be lying by rights, but he can’t bring himself to care. Instead he pulls his phone from his pocket, ready to dial before he remembers the international fees, and decides to charge it to Stark’s credit card instead. The room’s phone handset is wireless, and it floats easily over to him with a little further effort.

He dials the number from memory.

“Hello, Charles Xavier.”

“Hi,” Erik says, and lets his eyes droop closed.

“Erik!” Charles’ voice is like a balm over Erik’s jangled nerves - he wouldn’t sound that warm if anything had happened to him. “You’re there, then? Oh, of course you’re there, stupid question. How was your flight?”

The mattress is soft and welcoming, and Erik sinks into it gratefully, reaching up with his free hand to loosen his tie. “Long. Tiring. I can’t help but feel I should have asked Azazel to give me a jump.”

“You know you don’t like making the man feel like a taxi,” Charles says mock-sternly, and Erik hears the whirr of Charles’ ancient computer in the background amid the shuffling of papers - he must be in his little office at the university, between classes or working on his own projects. It’s only early afternoon back in New York. It seems impossible that it has only been a little more than half a day since Erik left in the dead of night, flying through the sun and arriving in the evening, the sky darkening outside, but Charles is wide awake at the other end, at home in his own time zone and unjetlagged. “What’s it like?” his sub asks, mumbling, by the sound of it with a pen in his mouth.

“Hot.”

“And?”

“I haven’t exactly been on the coach tour yet,” Erik says dryly, and starts unbuttoning his shirt, loosening the fabric to let some of the cool conditioned air get at his skin. “Though they’ll probably fit that in somewhere.”

“I miss you,” Charles says more quietly, after a moment, and the shuffling of papers stops. “I followed you as far as I could but it’s like you’re not there. It’s not a good feeling.”

Erik sighs, rubs at his eyes with his thumb and forefinger and sees stars. “I know. I’m not used to it either.”

“Six days.”

“You’d better be good for me,” Erik says, and smiles when he hears Charles hum under his breath on the far end, the shuffling about starting again, rough and ruffling paper. “I left you something to keep you busy while I’m away.”

“Oh?” That caught Charles’ attention.

His neck twinges, and Erik shifts his head back, letting his eyes drift closed. “There are six boxes lined up on my desk in the study. One for each day - they’re marked clearly when you should open them. There’s nothing to stop you from taking a peek, but it would be cheating, Charles, and I will be very disappointed if you cheat.”

Charles’ voice is a little breathless on the end of the phone. “I won’t.”

“You get one a day, every day before you go to bed. The time difference is eight hours, so you’ll be going to sleep when I’m getting up. At eleven o’clock each night I want you to take the day’s box and bring it into the bedroom with you and call me. I’ll be getting up here at seven. If you’re late I will be disappointed too, you understand?”

“Yes, Erik.”

“Good,” Erik says, and lets his hand drift down to rub idly at his cock through his pants, half-hard and lazily interested. “Alright. I’d better get some sleep, but call me at eleven for the first box, alright?”

Charles’ voice is definitely breathless now, and he sounds a little embarrassed as he says, “Yes, Erik. I’ll be good.”

Erik slips his hand under the waistband of his pants and starts stroking himself in earnest. “I know you will, Charles. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Erik.”

He thinks of Charles opening the boxes one by one as he jerks himself off, and he comes imagining the look on Charles’ face when he opens the third box.

 

~*~

 

His alarm is set to go off at two minutes to seven, local time. Erik wakes up resentfully, cracking his eyes open to stare at the rumpled pillow his face is half-buried in and deeply, deeply glad that the curtains are so thick and he remembered to pull them before sleeping last night. Around the edges the desert sunshine is already leaking in and leaving the room half-bright, streaked with daytime.

The phone rings just as the bedside clock flips over to seven am, and Erik rolls onto his back to answer, lifting the phone to his ear and kicking off the sheets so he can lay bare and unencumbered. “Good morning, Charles,” he says, feels it rumble through his chest, gravelled with the remnants of sleep.

“Good morning,” Charles says, warm and wanting, and Erik smiles.

“Do you have the box?”

“Yes.” There’s a sound like something being shaken. “It doesn’t give much away from the outside.”

Erik smiles. “It’s not supposed to.” 

In his mind’s eye he can see Charles sat cross-legged on their bed, blankets askew around him and one of those oversized sweaters he favours hanging off one shoulder, hair a mess from a long day of driving his fingers through it and face lightly stubbled with red and gold against pale skin. The first box will be in his lap, a deep pewter colour and made of thick, embossed card. Erik had found it in the card store across the street from work. Outside it will be nighttime in New York, not that the city ever really goes to bed, so Charles will have the lamp on - probably not the overhead lights, which are a bit too stark. He’ll have propped the phone between his shoulder and his ear, head tilted to hold it there while his fingers toy with the lid of the box.

“So what have you done today?” he asks, and hears Charles’ almost silent huff of frustration, curiosity thwarted for now.

“School things. Raven wanted to come over to watch a movie, but when I told her she had to leave before eleven she got all huffy and said she wouldn’t come.”

“I’ll make it up to you,” Erik murmurs. “What else?”

“Tried and failed to cook dinner. Ordered in instead. Sat on the floorpad to read and wished you were here.” There’s a small sigh on the other end, and if Erik were there - well, if he were there Charles wouldn’t be sighing, or at least not for this reason.

“Open the box,” Erik says, and listens to the slow slide of card on card as Charles wiggles the tight lid off.

“It’s… what is - oh!” There’s a hollow sound as what is probably the lid slips off the bed onto the floor. “It’s a glove? Just one, though.”

“I have the other one here,” Erik says, which isn’t a lie but it’s in his suitcase and getting it would require getting up. “More importantly, it’s a fur glove, Charles. It’s not for keeping your hand warm. You’re going to strip, and then you’re going to lie down on your back for me.”

Charles’ breath shudders, a stutter of an inhalation that Erik feels like a twist in his belly, hot and sweet. “I’ll have to put the phone down for a second,” his submissive says, and there’s a moment where the breathing gets further away - a sound of fabric as the sweater comes off - and then the breath is back, and Charles makes a little sound of effort - Erik imagines him lifting his hips from the bed to get his pants off, too aroused to bother standing up and making it easy - before he says, “I’ve done it, Erik.”

“Good,” Erik says. His fingertips stroke idly at the stretch of his belly, just under his own navel where he can tease himself idly, his cock thickening between his splayed thighs. “Spread your legs. Have you got your glove on, Charles?”

“Yes, Erik.” 

In his mind’s eye he sees Charles naked on their bed but for that one glove, the rich sandy-gold fur of it covering Charles’ hand but short enough to leave the thin skin of his wrist bare, the pulse beating against it. “Are you hard?”

“Um, oh - getting there.”

“Stroke your left nipple with the gloved hand,” Erik says, and Charles moans softly under his breath, almost drowning out the susurrus of fur on flesh as he obeys. “Does that feel good?”

Charles sighs. “It’s so soft.”

“Stroke your right nipple. Keep stroking them both, alternate.” Erik lets his own fingers trail up and down the dark line of his own pubic hair where it starts under his navel, never quite touching himself where his erection is rising, now, swelling with the sounds Charles makes. “Are they hard, Charles? I bet your nipples are all puckered up and tight - ”

“Oh - ”

“Does it feel good? I picked it out for you specially,” Erik says, thinking about Charles’ flat brown nipples clenching into round little nubs, thinks about biting them. “I stroked all of the gloves for you, to find the softest ones. Because I know how much you liked Emma’s furs, didn’t you? I thought about stealing them from her so I could fuck you on them, just shove you down on your belly so you could rub all along it while I fucked you from behind, tie your hands behind your back so you just have to take it while all that fur is caressing your body.”

“Can we still do that?” Charles asks, breath shallow and fast, and Erik laughs.

“Stroke your neck, Charles, lightly - ” The sound Charles makes at that is utterly obscene, and Erik groans, sliding his fingers around his cock and jerking slowly up and down. “Are you hard now, Charles? How much do you want me to let you jerk off with the glove? I’m hard just thinking about you touching yourself like that, just listening to you, you’re filthy - ”

“Erik, please let me jerk off,” Charles says as though prompted, voice breaking on a moan. “Please. Please, Erik.”

“Touch your cock,” Erik says, and he listens to the gasping hitch in Charles’ breath as he does as he’s ordered, a rising moaning, imagines that fur-covered hand rubbing up and down Charles’ swollen, leaking erection, brushing against it so softly and getting all smeared and sticky with pre-come, tentative then firming the more desperate Charles gets. “I’ll have to go into her closet, you can distract her and Moira and I’ll steal it for you, Charles - maybe that long robe she was wearing at that party, would you like that? Getting it all dirty and covered in come - ”

He can hear Charles sobbing for breath, and the mental image of Charles laid out on the fur, tied up and crying for release tips Erik over the edge, vision whiting out for a moment as he comes all over his hand with a shout. On the other end of the phone line Charles makes a half-strangled cry as he comes - Erik can imagine his orgasm face, pretty mouth open in an ‘o’ of pleasure, his cock probably spurting all over the now bedraggled glove, chest flushed and muscles lax and limp, easy to manhandle the way he always is after orgasm.

“Mmm,” Charles says after a long, blissful silence broken only by the sound of skin on linen as he stretches, luxurious and sated.

Erik reaches for a tissue from the box at the side of the bed and starts wiping his hand clean before it can get sticky, and finally sits up, shoving the pillows into a mountain behind his back that he can lean against, supported and swaddled. “Did you like that?” An extended thought to the curtain hooks sweeps the curtains open on the day, and the sky outside is blinding, sun dazzling off the windows for a moment and leaving him blinking away spots. “Charles?”

His submissive sounds drowsy now, his voice like slow-dripping honey. “Yes, Erik.”

“Good.” It’s just as well Charles can’t see the silly, indulgent smile on Erik’s face as he tosses the sodden tissue across the room and into the waste paper basket. “Go to sleep, love. There’s another present for you tomorrow.”

“I love presents,” Charles says sleepily, “I love you.” 

“I love you too,” Erik says to the sound of Charles starting to snore, and only hangs up when he has to go shower and get ready for his first meeting.


	2. Chapter 2

The car the hotel company sends for Erik is glossy and black in defiance of the humid, sand-laced air, with tinted windows to keep out the beating sun. He’s ready to wait for it in the lobby, but the car is already there when he gets downstairs after breakfast, idling by the front doors with engine still on to keep the AC flowing and the radio turned onto to something quiet and local. Even dressed for the weather - pale grey linen suit and white shirt, no tie - he’s still sweating the moment he steps out of the shadow of the hotel, briefcase in hand and dark sunglasses slipped onto the bridge of his nose.

The driver stands up from his casual lean against the side of the car, immediately reaching for the door handle and opening it so Erik can step from air conditioned lobby directly into the air conditioned interior.

“Thanks,” Erik says as the man shuts the door behind him, and it only takes a moment for the man to be sat behind the wheel and pulling away from the kerb. They join the four-lane highway without so much as a murmur from the highly-tuned engine. Erik watches the city roll past as he runs through his presentation in his mind, making minor tweaks and changes as they drive. Outside the car the buildings are very different from those at home - they’re much the same shape underneath, like most buildings, but there is something very middle Eastern about them, too, the aesthetic and the detailing, the curvature on the windows and the stone they’re made of, the same colour as the desert, probably compressed of the same rock. The streets are lined with palm trees. Doms stride from place to place, and headscarved submissives move in groups, hair covered as they go about their day.

Even the atmosphere feels different here, and it takes him a while to realise it’s his magnetic sense that’s off, the magnetosphere vibrating in his bones in a different key than at home.

There’s nowhere that looks like a bar on street level, and Erik wonders if the one in the hotel is the exception or if he just doesn’t recognise the signs, somewhere so far from home. Instead there is cafe after cafe between the small shops and dark-windowed restaurants waiting for evening, cafe chairs out on the sidewalk full of people sitting and talking to one another and on their mobile phones. He can’t help but notice that there seem to be many more Dominants on the street than there are submissives. What would Charles think of this beautiful, alien-seeming place - simultaneously familiar and foreign, the city on the water reaching to the sky. He would, of course, be curious, Erik thinks, and smiles to himself. Charles is nothing if not curious. And beautiful, under this bright summer sun.

It takes about half an hour through the city traffic, and they pull over on a busy street of skyscrapers in front of a tall glass-clad building, its sculpted silhouette stretching high above their heads. The driver says nothing, just gets out and comes around to let Erik out, does not so much as wait for a tip but instead gets back into the car and drives off, leaving Erik in front of the Ghayara Group offices, glanced at by the locals as they walk past him and then dismissed as another foreigner.

“Lehnsherr!”

Erik looks down from examining the metal skeleton of the building with his power to find Jean-Paul Beaubier beckoning at him from the entranceway, a wide grin on his face. The other mutant has been out here for a few weeks and it shows - the man is tanned nut-brown everywhere Erik can see, his shirt light and loosely made of the local fabric even though he’s wearing a suit, sunglasses perched on the top of his head keeping his dark, messy hair back from his face. “Come on,” Jean-Paul says, gesturing again, and Erik goes to meet him, lets Jean-Paul usher him into the air conditioning again - even after so brief a stint on the street the cooled air is like a slap in the face, welcome and chilling at once. He grins when Erik can’t suppress a shiver. “It’s good to see you. Ready to close the book on this project?”

“Something like that,” Erik says, and shrugs. “Let’s get on with it.”

Inside the building is all business-like elegance, the staff in their loose robes much better adapted to the heat than either of them. The receptionist has them led upstairs by a female Dom who doesn’t so much as speak to them, just nods politely and gestures for them to follow her to a glass-walled conference room high up in the building, with yet another gorgeous view of the city.

The room is already half-filled with people whose faces Erik vaguely recognises from Skype meetings, sat across the table from the door adn looking at the two westerners as they’re shown in. “Welcome,” the only man whose name Erik is sure of - Khalid ibn al-Jarrah - says, standing to shake their hands, and they’re offered cold drinks as everyone is introduced and the juniormost member hooks up Erik’s laptop to the projector screen, bowing slightly and politely in the Arabic style, keeping his chin raised so that his eyes never leave Erik’s.

The meeting is an overview of the project, from groundbreaking to completion, and how Stark Industries has worked through it all. The dozen Doms from the hotel company nod along with Erik’s bulletpoints, occasionally making notes or interjecting with questions. They are clearly at least half mutants - one of them has skin the colour and texture of tree bark, while another emits a slow-throbbing blue light when he shifts, leaving afterimages behind - but none of them are submissives, all of them looking him right in the eye and talking with confidence, not hesitating to interrupt when he pauses for breath. It’s - odd. Erik notes it, not commenting on it but mindful, nonetheless, that at home at least some of them would be subs, usually, even if they were in the least cut-throat positions. After the meeting he watches them file out, and it’s then when they are out of the room and out of earshot that one or two of them dip their heads and eyes, posture changing to something that looks more natural on them, though he had not noticed it being wrong before.

“You should come over to the apartment this evening,” Jean-Paul says as he finishes gathering up the photo-boards, tapping his fingers against the heavy card. “Kyle would welcome the company.”

“Maybe,” Erik says, then feels ungracious. “I didn’t realise your sub came with you.”

“Oh, Kyle can work from anywhere, he works from a home office. It’s just presenting himself as a Dom here that gets to him, he’s pretty flamboyant usually.”

Erik pauses. “I’m sorry, what?”

“It was in the briefing,” Jean-Paul says, then smiles when he sees Erik’s blank expression. “It’s part of the culture here. Submissives either choose to wear the hijab or the veil and present themselves as submissives, or they present themselves as Doms in public - they’re big on modesty, on respecting submission. It’s not a legal requirement, but if you were a sub I’d be advising you to Dom up if you didn’t want to cover your head. They won’t deal with a submissive whose head isn’t covered.”

“So some of them were subs?” Erik asks, looking out at the main office where the people they’ve just met are settling back to their desks.

“Oh, yeah. They probably wear the hijab outside the office. In Dubai they do their kneeling at home. Submission is a private affair.”

Erik makes a considering sound under his breath, and allows Jean-Paul to lead him out to lunch to discuss their next set of meetings. He can’t help but pay attention to the people around him, couples sat quietly together in the restaurant they go to, and try to think about submission the way they do.

 

~*~

 

Jetlag sets in that night, and Erik wakes up at three AM the next morning, then at five, then when his alarm goes off at two minutes before seven. He spends the minute and a half before the phone rings thinking about modesty - particularly ironic given today’s box. “Good morning, Charles.”

“Good evening,” Charles says on the other end. He sounds tired but happy, and it takes Erik a moment to realise that the caress of Charles’ mind that usually accompanies a greeting isn’t going to come. It feels like he’s been robbed of something he never knew how to miss before he had it, like a lost extension of himself - they’re almost always touching minds, these days. “How was your first day?”

Erik takes the phone with him when he gets out of the bed, holds it to his ear as he pads barefoot and naked across to the window. He opens the curtain a sliver to look outside. The weather looks much the same as the day before - glorious and hellishly hot. “It went well,” he says, letting the curtain slip closed again as he turns to the dining table he’s appropriated as a desk, and grabs his own half of today’s present to take back to bed with him, climbing back on top of the sheets and setting it at his right hip. “It’s very different here, but they seem happy with the finished product, so it’s going to be dotting I’s and crossing T’s, I think. A waste of my time.”

“Poor you,” Charles teases, “exiled to Paradise,” and Erik can hear him shifting, too, getting comfortable on the bed. He’s probably curled up on his side, all the bedding pulled over to his side in the absence of Erik to weigh it down, like an animal nesting. Left to his own devices Charles sleeps like the dead, only the very top of his head protruding from the blankets. Erik thinks about stroking a finger down the back of Charles’ curved-forward neck, making him shudder and bite his lip, so sensitive there.

“The subs here are different,” he says, hitting the ‘on’ button and listening to the machine wake up. “Some of them pretend to be Doms in public. It’s strange.”

Charles hums in that way he always does when he’s interested. “I’ve heard about that before. It’s a religious cultural thing. I like being submissive in public, though. I like people knowing I’m yours.”

Erik still feels a thrill when Charles says it, a subtle buzz of electricity through his body that thrums through him like the energy in a circuit. He’d liked Charles’ paralysing shyness when they’d first bonded, and it’s still fun to try and find it in him - Erik knows just what buttons to push for it, too - but Charles is also unfettered in his affections and his expression of them, something Erik cannot help but love. “Do you have your second box?” he asks, settling himself and dragging the pillows back into best position for him to sit up in bed, already primed for the answer.

“Yes, Erik.” Charles sounds like he’s laughing. “This one says ‘do not shake’.”

The second box is the same size and shape of the first, but velvet-textured in a deep midnight blue, with a silver ribbon tied around it to keep the lid on. Erik had found it in one of the last few crates he hadn’t unpacked yet, a little ratty around the edges where he’s kept it since his mother passed away. She’d kept old cinema tickets and receipts in it, for some reason, but he likes it much better repurposed for Charles. “Open it, and tell me what you got in your present,” he orders, and waits.

“Oh!” Erik can hear Charles blushing all the way in Dubai, imagines the sudden flushing heat in his cheeks and the tips of his ears as he sees what Erik has left for him. “It’s a webcam,” Charles says, voice high and tight with embarrassment and arousal, “and a dildo.”

“It’s a vibrator, actually.” Erik grins to himself as he activates the chat program on his laptop where he’s put it in full view on the bed. “You should recognise it, I took it from the drawer.”

Charles’ voice is muffled, as though he’s talking through his hands. Erik knows he will be going red all over, down the pale skin of his chest and, more importantly, between his legs. “What - ”

“Go and fetch your laptop, then come back here.”

“Yes, Erik,” Charles says, and Erik has to wait for him to come back, listens to the distant sounds of doors opening and closing, footsteps on their thick carpet at home - he loves Charles barefoot and vulnerable, cushioned and cosseted that way. There’s a metal shift of bedsprings as Charles climbs back on the bed, then a scrabbling of fingers and a shuddering, “I have it.”

“Is it on?”

“Yes.”

“Plug the webcam into the laptop, it’ll load the software automatically,” Erik says. “I added myself to your contacts - I’m the only one in there.”

“I’ve got it,” Charles says, and there’s a ringing, bell-like noise from Erik’s computer as it connects to Charles’ and the webcam image opens up.

His submissive is naked, as pink and flushed as Erik imagined, freckles standing out like stardust on his skin where the pink only makes them darker. He stares greedily at the slightly stuttering image, not quite as smooth as true video. Charles’ mouth is a little moue of self-consciousness, his hands moving as though he wants to cover himself up. “I can’t see you,” Charles says, as Erik admires the tousled tangle of Charles’ hair, thinks about running his fingers through it, closing his fist and dragging on it the way that excites pained and blissful noises out of Charles. “I can only see me.”

“I know,” Erik says, settling back on the bed. “Put the laptop and the camera somewhere stable and lie back for me, Charles. Somewhere I can see your face and your cock and your ass at the same time. You might want to get some lube out of the drawer now so you don’t have to get up for it later.”

There’s a slight whine of embarrassment that almost doesn’t make it over the phone, but Erik hears it anyway and growls low under his breath as Charles obeys, propping himself up with the pillows the same way Erik has and placing the laptop between his legs, thighs raising to plant his feet on the bed to either side and make room for it. Charles goes even redder, if possible, looking at the screen to check the viewpoint fulfils Erik’s requirements and being confronted with his own hard and rising cock, the soft sac of his balls behind it and, underneath and lit by the blue-white light of the screen, his dark and crinkled hole, which clenches as though to hide from the attention.

“God, if I could I would lick you out right now,” Erik says, and Charles’ head tips back slightly, eyelids drooping half-closed on a moan, neck arched ready for a bite. “You look so good, Charles - look at yourself, all laid out for me. You pretend you’re so shy but you want it, don’t you? You love it.”

Charles shakes his head, turning his face away.

“Look at yourself, or I’ll stop and you won’t get off again until I’m back from Dubai,” Erik warns, and slowly, reluctantly, Charles opens his eyes and lifts his head to stare at himself on the screen, biting at his lip in a way that drives Erik mad.

“Lube up your fingers and get yourself ready for me,” he orders, and Charles shudders, his cock jumping and swelling no matter how humiliated he looks, as he reaches for the lube, propping the phone between his shoulder and his cheek, lips brushing against the receiver and his breath loud in Erik’s ear.

The gel goes onto his fingers slick and slow-running, and when Charles reaches between his thighs to trail his fingers behind his balls and down his perineum to his hole Erik groans and puts a hand on himself, stroking from root to tip. He’s more interested in watching Charles rubbing at the tight ring of muscle from the outside, loosening himself up before pushing his index finger _in_ ; there’s a moment where his asshole resists the pressure and then his finger pops into the little pucker, sliding in to the first knuckle as Charles shudders and bites his lip harder, bleaching the soft flesh white. Once it’s all the way in he starts moving the finger in and out of himself, slow and steady, his other hand coming up to hold his cock and balls out of his way so he can get it in deeper, neglecting his throbbing cock.

His hips start moving into it when he adds the second finger, and from his perfect vantage point Erik can see the muscle stretching to accommodate the extra digit as Charles moans louder, strong thighs shifting as he pushes into his own touch. Erik’s hand on his own cock would feel subpar if it weren’t for Charles’ flushed and blushing cheeks, and just to make sure his submissive’s humiliation and arousal ramps even higher he deliberately says, “You look beautiful, Charles, all stretched out and fucking yourself open for me so I can watch you. You love it, don’t you? You love it when I make you do things for me, because you love the way it feels when I give you permission to be as slutty as you want, because you love it when I make you touch yourself and I tell you how sexy you are, giving in to what I want.”

“Erik,” Charles groans, staring at the webcam lens as though he can see his Dominant through the camera even without the image, and Erik grunts and moves his own hand faster, tightening his grip on his flesh before pausing to spit on his hand and slick it up, teasing the long vein along the underside as his cock throbs. “Erik, please.”

“Take the vibrator now and get it wet for me,” Erik says, and then his breath catches as Charles takes the long thick bit of purple plastic and licks it instead of lubing it up, puts the head of it in his mouth and starts sucking on it until it’s wet with saliva. “God, Charles!”

“I wish it was you,” Charles says, and when he takes the vibrator away from his mouth to speak a long string of drool connects it to his lip for a moment before breaking and leaving his chin shiny and wet with spit, his lips glossy and swollen from sucking so hard. “Please can I put it in, Erik.”

“Lube first,” Erik says, dazed with such strong lust that he has to take his hand away from his erection to stop things running away with him, and he watches as Charles moans and obeys, rubbing slick over the whole length of the vibrator. “Now put it between your legs, put the end of it against your ass, and turn it on. Don’t put it in.”

The fingers that turn the dial are slick with the lube that has already gone inside Charles, and they slip a bit, but when it turns on, the fat head of it just pressing his dark and open hole wide, Charles gasps and his hips judder forward before he can stop himself, stretching him even further. There’s a buzzing sound of the little motor inside the toy that even Erik can hear - he put new batteries in it himself. “Aahah - ”

“Push it in and fuck yourself with it,” Erik says, and has to squeeze himself in one long hard pull on his cock as Charles does as he’s told, pressing the vibrator inside himself and grunting and crying and moaning as it goes in, his hips thrusting back and forth as he works it into his tight hole, panting and face crumpling in on an expression of ecstasy.

Charles is utterly abandoned to it, his legs splayed so that Erik can see everything as he fucks the vibrator in and out of his ass, balls and cock bouncing against his stomach. It takes him a while to get it all the way in, his eyes closing and opening as he tries to keep looking as he was told, so blue and watering with pleasure, gasping each time he thrusts it inside. Erik’s breath is coming hard and fast, and he can see Charles listening, the phone caught against his sub’s ear, so Erik says, “Listen to what you’re doing to me,” and puts the phone next to his hand as he jerks himself off, wet slapping sounds of flesh on flesh that is enough to make Charles cry out and shoot come all over his chest, asshole clenching down tight around the vibrator inside of him as he orgasms, cock untouched and his whole body writhing with it, curling in on himself until his thighs nearly raise up to his chest, ass raised and exposed to Erik’s view.

Erik comes staring at the wet splashes of white trickling down Charles’ side and into his navel, the thick stretch of the vibrator opening his sub up and keeping him open and pinned as it keeps buzzing inside of him.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, as Charles gasps and moans through the aftershocks, fingers toying with the vibrator and not taking it out but pushing it deeper inside even though it must be painfully overstimulating. “God, Charles, I wish you were here.”

“Please,” Charles murmurs, but he’s smiling even as he whines and fucks himself a little more. “Oh, Erik, please.”

“I’m going to do terrible things to you when I get home,” Erik says, and watches Charles shake all over, toes curling like he wants to beg.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With elaborate thanks to the amazing **spicedpiano** , whose help on this (read: controlling my level of crazy by saying 'sssssh', mopping my brow and then making good suggestions) has been invaluable.
> 
> Also, you HAVE to check out this [beautiful artwork](http://astasia.tumblr.com/post/28261070073) the amazing **astasia** did for Backseat 'verse. It's so gorgeous ;o;
> 
> Some reference pictures for this chapter are at the end, but they are spoilery for the fic (kinda), so go look if you don't mind or look after :3
> 
> The eagle-eyed amongst you might also recognise [Soorayah Qadir](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dust_%28comics%29), aka Dust from the X-men comics, who I couldn't really leave out of an Arabic story.

“Would you like to come out for dinner with my bonded, my friend and me?”

Erik looks up from his laptop to find Yasmin Al-Asma’i, the Finance Director for the project, standing over the desk he’s been lent by the Ghayara Group, hands on her hips over her dark _abaya_. “We don’t bite,” she says, and smiles, her teeth very white. “Or at least, Ayyad does not. Soorayah, who can say?”

Behind her Erik can see Jean-Paul talking to the operations director of the company, not looking Erik’s way at all - there’s no way to subtly check his etiquette, so he looks back to Yasmin and nods his acceptance. “Thank you. That’s very kind of you.”

“Oh, Ayyad will be all over questions, never mind that,” she says, flicking her long dark hair back over her shoulders. Her curling ram’s horns split the long waves on either side of her head, polished and shining with careful attention like her painted finger- and toenails where they show in her open sandals. “If I leave you here all the talk at dinner will be work, work, work. Or you will be sitting alone in your hotel room all evening. So you should come with us and see Dubai.”

“Let me pack up then and I’ll be right with you,” Erik says, and sets his laptop to shut down. Yasmin goes to her desk to pick up her bag and comes back to wait for him to finish, checking her make-up in a small hand mirror as she waits.

When he’s ready she smiles and gestures towards the elevator. “Ayyad texted me, he is downstairs waiting in reception with Soorayah. The restaurant we usually go to is close to here, I hope you like spicy food.”

“I’ll manage,” Erik says, and lets her lead.

He’s not spoken much to Yasmin before, since the money side of things couldn’t interest him less, but she chats easily to him on the way down to the lobby, asking him about his flight and how he is finding the city without an ounce of shyness. Given what he’d learnt yesterday, that some submissives present as Dominant here, he can’t help but wonder if she’s really Dominant or just a great actress. As soon as they’re out of the office and in the elevator she goes into her bag and pulls out some jangling gold hoops which go straight in her ears, followed by two pointed caps for the tips of her horns, cut from lacelike gold, and a broad belt of thick gold metal panels, each the size of Erik’s palm, which she fastens around her waist and wriggles into place. It’s not quite a collar, though, and it doesn’t have the feel of one. The walls of the elevator car are mirrored, and she examines herself again, seems to find her appearance acceptable by the way she nods decisively, lifting her chin.

“Soorayah is my good friend,” she says as they reach the ground floor, glancing up at him with easy confidence. “She is Afghani, but she came here for a bonding that fell through. She stays with me and Ayyad for now. Are you bonded?”

Erik lifts his wrist to show her his bonding bracelet. “Yes.”

“Too bad,” and Yasmin laughs, eyes crinkling merrily at the corners. “InshaAllah. A non-Muslim would never have done, anyway. Your bonded did not come with you?”

“No, Charles is working in New York,” Erik says, as the doors open and they step out past a group of Doms waiting for the elevator.

“A shame,” she says, and pats his arm sympathetically. “Never mind, we’ll have fun tonight. Ayyad!”

Over by the reception desk a tall, slim man stood over by the reception desk turns to look at them, the woman beside him turning too. Both of them are wearing headscarves, though the woman is wearing a veil over the lower half of her face as well, all of it black; Ayyad’s hijab is blue on black, a strong headband across his forehead and heavy folds pinned with dangling ornaments at his temple beside the hinge of his glasses, the tasselled end of the scarf draped over his shoulder. He ducks his head as Yasmin approaches, and she touches his shoulder lightly, a quiet acknowledgement. “This is Erik Lehnsherr, the engineer from the USA,” she says, and both subs bow towards Erik.

“Hello,” the woman - who must be Soorayah - says, keeping her eyes lowered once she’s straightened. “Good to meet you.”

“And you,” Erik says awkwardly, and at his side Yasmin laughs again, a low shudder of amusement.

“Come on, I am hungry after all of that talking,” she says, and links arms with Ayyad. The man towers over his diminutive Dom, his loose robes black and flowing around his ankles as they head out into the evening heat.

Outside the humidity is unbearable, and with the sun riding low in the sky Erik has to put his sunglasses back on to block some of the reflections from the tall buildings, which shine like enormous mirrors when the light catches them. He sees from the corner of his eye the Arabs doing the same, and feels better.

Yasmin and Ayyad are having a quiet conference in quick-fire Arabic, and there is something about the tall man that reminds Erik of Hank McCoy, almost, something in the way he moves; he looks baseline enough that there’s no outward resemblance to Hank, but then Charles has told Erik about Hank’s late-teens transformation, so it’s possible they might not have been too different before Hank’s change. By contrast Soorayah is calm and serene, gliding along like a shadow behind the two of them as though nothing could ruffle her, a dark-clad swan. It’s hard to know if he’s allowed to speak to her without permission, or her speaking first, so Erik says nothing, just follows as they turn off the main street the office building is on and onto a slightly narrower street behind it where there are more people and fewer business suits.

“Yasmin says your submissive is in New York without you,” Soorayah says suddenly, the sound of her inhale before speaking muffled by her veil though her voice is very clear. “You must trust him a great deal.”

“Charles is very independent,” Erik says, since replying should be fine now she’s started the conversation. “He has his own work to do, I couldn’t just bring him on a business trip with me. He’d get bored too quickly in any case.”

“It is good you can trust him so much. Not all Dominants do.”

“Charles is very good,” he says, and he gets the impression from her eyes when she glances sidelong at him that she smiles.

They have to pause to cross the street, joining a small crowd at the crosswalk before the light turns green. Soorayah keeps her hands tucked into the folds of her robe and out of the way of casual contact. “Do you miss him?”

Erik thinks about Charles this morning, panting and sated after Erik was done with him over the webcam, that blissful look on his face and the soft sound of his voice, the way he talks with his hands and bustles about the apartment doing all these little things until Erik makes him slow down, the way he leans into submission joyfully. “Yes,” he says simply, and Yasmin looks back over her shoulder at him, the corner of her mouth quirking up.

“The restaurant is just around the corner,” she says, and Soorayah says nothing more as they come to the door of a small but busy restaurant. Erik can see people sat on the floor around low tables inside talking over their meals, and Yasmin pushes the door open easily, gesturing for Ayyad and Soorayah to precede her inside, then letting Erik take the door from her as they follow.

They’re seated at another of the tables, and Yasmin nods approvingly as Erik settles himself cross-legged across from her. It’s strange to be on the floor when in America it is only children and submissives who spend much time down here; still, he accepts his menu from the waiter with thanks, shifting a little to try and get comfortable, though the floor under him is padded and soft, almost like a chair but for the elevation.

“Your submissive is a man?” Ayyad asks as a large jug of iced water is placed on the table in front of them, “A mutant?”

“Charles is a telepath.”

“And yourself?”

Instead of answering Erik raises his hand and crooks two fingers at Yasmin; the large gold hoops in her ears swing forward toward him, and there’s a jolt as her belt tugs on her waist that makes her laugh, startled and delighted. “Telekinetic?” she asks, and Erik shakes his head, letting go of the metal though it sings of heat and malleable softness to his extra sense. “Metallokinetic,” he says, and sets Ayyad’s pin-charms to swaying at his temple.

“Does he kneel in public?” Soorayah asks, and Yasmin hisses under her breath, a low _tch_ that the veiled woman ignores. “I have heard that Western submissives are open in their submission.”

“Attitudes to submission are different at home,” Erik says as diplomatically as he knows how, but Ayyad says, “I have heard that Western submissives do not cover their heads, even when they are showing their submission publicly.”

Erik glances at Yasmin. “That’s true.”

“It seems very immodest to me,” Soorayah says, folding her hands in her lap. “The Qu’ran teaches that submission is a thing for joy and privacy, to be shared with Allah and with one’s Dominant, not with everybody.”

The waiter approaches their table then, and Yasmin turns her attention to him momentarily for a rapid spate of Arabic before she turns back, saying, “I have ordered for us all. I hope you do not mind, Erik.”

“That’s fine.” He’s feeling rather out of his depth, actually, caught in a philosophical and religious conversation when he hasn’t so much as set foot in a Synagogue since his mother died. “In America we place a premium on self-expression. There’s no shame in being submissive, so it isn’t hidden from others. Submissives - Charles enjoys others knowing he’s mine, that I’m his.”

Ayyad smiles, then, small and kind. “Ah, I think you misunderstand the principles in Islam. It is not that submission is shameful - quite the opposite. Islam means ‘submission to God’. Our lives are built around that principle. The hijab was intended to identify those among us who are submissive, and mark them such to protect them from harm. It is a way of both showing our natures and modestly covering them, of reserving our submission for those it belongs to. If we should choose to hide it entirely we may present ourselves as Dominant instead. The hijab in itself is self-expression. In turn, the Dom turns his or her eyes away from the submissive in another show of modesty, though they do not cover away their Dominance.”

“Ayyad is the Imam at our Mosque,” Yasmin says, and touches his arm lightly for a moment, what might, Erik thinks, have been a clasp of hands between an American couple. “He is the - you would call it the prayer leader. They are sponsoring him to study under the Islamic Studies faculty in the College of Islamic and Arabic Studies here in Dubai.”

The food arrives - it must come from a ready-made bowl because it is piping hot from cooking, steam rising from the stacked pile of yellow, spiced rice and meat, studded with onions and sultanas. It smells citrus-y, rich and foreign, and Erik’s belly rumbles embarrassingly loudly.

The waiter wordlessly hands him a hot, moist towel, and it takes a moment before he realises he is supposed to clean his hands on it before eating.

“We can get you a fork if you need it.” But Yasmin is raising one eyebrow in challenge, and so Erik shakes his head and wipes his fingers clean before looking to see what the others are doing. It’s very neat, the way the Arabs do it - Ayyad pinches a fat lump of rice together into a ball and pops it into his mouth as easily as using cutlery, so Erik decides to give it a try. After a moment of further observation he sits on his left hand, since nobody else seems to be using theirs. When he tries to squash together a ball of rice he succeeds only in dropping almost all of it straight back to his plate at first, but it doesn’t take him long to get the hang of it. Whatever the meal is, it’s good, though he has to take a big swallow of water at first to counteract the spice. “What is this?”

“ _Al Machboos_ ,” Soorayah says, scooping up some of the sauce with a piece of flatbread. “Lamb stew, with lemons. So your submissive, how does he show he is submissive to you?”

“It’s not the same for everyone,” Erik hedges, but it feels awkward, more like he is trying to fit to their mould than sticking to his own natural inclination. He gives up the attempt to be circumspect. “Charles sits at my feet. He obeys my orders when I give them, but he has the right to refuse. It’s all agreed between us what latitude I have, and what he will or won’t do. It’s not considered immodest to be openly submissive, though to be fair, our society is much less invested in modesty than yours. His submission is a gift, and it’s - well, American society approves of visible dynamics, of being able to express yourself that way.”

“Enough of this,” Yasmin says, and claps her hands, startling the two submissives. “Dubai is not all religion and modesty. Erik, you must go to the beaches while you are here, and - oh, you must go to the Gold Souk! I think you will enjoy it, it is the world’s largest gold market, and it is open until ten at night. We should go tonight, after dinner! We will take the water taxi.”

Erik accepts the offer - and the interruption - with gratitude.

Later on, as they wander through long streets walled with glittering displays of heavy, singing gold, she says, “Those two could talk about philosophy of orientation all night. Let them do it at home later, but I wanted to eat my dinner!”

Erik laughs.

 

~*~

 

He tells Charles about it the next morning, about the sensation of all that metal all around, great glass windows with waterfall necklaces of thick gold links and delicate, elaborate dangling pins for headscarves, gold-framed sunglasses and rings and collars and chained cuffs, thick and heavy or delicate and carved until they look too fragile to hold anyone captive. Bangles by the hundred, rattling softly as he walked past, drawn to Erik by his power even as it was tempted out of him by the need to run invisible hands through it all, to wallow a little.

“It sounds beautiful,” Charles says, moving against the bedclothes with a rustle. He’s bright-eyed on the webcam, a mug of tea in one hand, tucked in under their thick duvet which lies rumpled around his waist, chest bare. He’d smiled so widely when Erik had turned on the webcam built into his laptop, the first time he’d seen Erik for a few days - one hand had risen to touch the screen as though a few millimetres were all that really separated them, the depth of an image, and Charles’ gaze had been soft, drinking Erik in as though long he were a land long since parched of water. “Did you have fun?”

“I got caught up in the sort of debate you usually like at dinner beforehand,” Erik says dryly. “I felt distinctly underqualified to comment.”

“Oh?”

“Yasmin’s submissive, Ayyad, and her friend Soorayah are some sort of scholars of Islam. I got caught up in a discussion comparing Western and Middle Eastern submission.”

Charles lifts his mug and sips at his tea, the corner of his mouth curling up the way it always does when he’s feeling mischievous. “I hope you told them that I’m dreadfully immoral.” 

“Positively filthy,” Erik says fondly.

That gets him a laugh, Charles ducking his head for a moment before looking back up, eyes sparkling. “It does sounds interesting, though. I was talking to Ororo about it today - you know she grew up in North-East Africa? - and the culture around orientation and presentation is really an intriguing way of looking at Dominance and submission.”

Here in Erik’s quiet, soundproofed hotel room, it feels as though they are cocooned away from the rest of the world, just the two of them, though far apart. Erik ends up recounting the conversation at the restaurant for Charles as best he can, and Charles makes little noises of enthused fascination - he has that look on his face that says he’d almost certainly be making notes if he had a notebook to hand, but he seems to be lying on Erik’s side of the bed, putting Charles’ usual pad and pen on the nightstand out of his immediate reach. “You should really speak to Ayyad,” Erik says in the end, when Charles has exhausted Erik’s memory. “Since he is actually a submissive from the Middle East, which I am not.”

“I’m glad,” Charles says, suddenly low and fervent, and there’s a pause as the mood shifts.

“Do you have your third box?” Erik asks, sitting up against the pillows and letting his relaxation become more focused, less a comfortable sprawl of pillow talk and more a deceptive, predatory stillness, lets his more forceful nature out to play. Charles breathes in, shallow and sharp, pupils dilating, and he nods, then leans out of shot, pulling back into view with the third box and setting it possessively in his lap.

Today’s is shaped like a treasure chest, the size of a shoebox and made out of wickerwork and carved wood, a thick loop of the wicker keeping the latch closed. Erik had found it at Goodwill, tucked into a pile of old suitcases. There’s not an ounce of metal in it, but he likes it nonetheless, likes it better when Charles’ fingers find the latch and then stay there, poised and waiting for his permission.

“You can open it,” he says, and watches as Charles loosens the loop and tips the lid open on its hinges with a creak of wood on wood.

For a moment there is silence, broken only by the sound of Charles’ sharp intake of breath, the shudder of his lower lip as he sucks in air, pupils dilating further until there is only the finest layer of blue surrounding the black. His cheeks flush a slow, heavy pink, lashes sweeping against them in a slow blink. “Erik,” Charles says, a full octave lower than his usual, and lifts the thick coil of silk rope from the tissue paper Erik had laid it in, two loops and the long tail end of it wrapped around the middle to keep it neat; it’s been dyed a deep, midnight blue, the length of it lying soft and supple across Charles’ palms. His fingers curl around the rope, and Charles shivers, full-bodied. “You said - ”

“I know I said we’d wait,” Erik interrupts, propping his elbows on the headboard behind him, stretched out and bare-chested, the shift of muscle drawing Charles’ eyes, if only momentarily, away from the rope. “Think of this as a training exercise, Charles. We’re still going to wait to do anything more complicated until we have the time to get it right, but since I can’t be there with you I want to remind you that you are mine, and restrained to my will and my decisions. There’s an instruction guide under the tissue paper if you get stuck, but I’m going to tell you what I want you to do.”

“Some kind of _Shibari for Dummies_?” Charles asks as he pulls the book out from under the tissue paper, and Erik can see the effect the thought of it is having on Charles by the way his nipples have tightened as though caught in a cold breeze, and the way he squirms as though trying to get comfortable without reaching under the covers to adjust himself.

Erik looks again at the rope in his submissive’s hands. Enough distraction. “Put that book down and stand up - you’ll need to be on your feet for this. Turn the laptop so I can see you.”

Charles pushes back the covers and skins off his boxers with a swift push of his hands, hooking his thumbs in the elastic waistband to push them down and off; his cock sways, thick and hardening between his thighs as he clambers out of the bed and out of shot. Then a hand comes back into view, and the image judders sickeningly, turning, before it resettles focused on Charles stood in the empty floorspace on Erik’s side of the bed. He is stood naked on the rug, the rich blue rope dangling from his right hand, fingers curled around it covetously - he hasn’t put it down since he took it out of the box.

“Undo the wrapping first,” Erik says, “so you can unwind it,” and watches as Charles’ clever hands work loose the tucked-in end, pulling on it until the loops that secure the rest of the rope fall away in great expanding waves. The silk thread of the rope catches the light and gleams, the unbroken fibres beautifully smooth. Erik looks at Charles’ face and the heave of his chest, rising and fallling with each enthralled and unsteady breath, and adds, “No experimenting without me, Charles, or I’ll have to punish you.”

Erik is feeling a little unsteady himself, the thunder of his heartbeat like a drum in his ribcage, the hot blood thrumming through his body as he watches, laced with lightning in his veins. Arousal is an afterthought to this, the rope in his submissive’s hands, stark contrast to his pale and freckled skin.

The loops have fallen entirely open now, the rope one long length that Charles has draped over each palm, admiring the tight weave. He strokes it distractedly against his chest and his cock twitches, his eyes sliding half-shut. “Yes, Erik.”

It’s an effort not to put a hand out to the screen to touch Charles’ image, but Erik refrains, keeps his posture tight and controlled. He can feel the heat of his own gaze on his submissive’s body, barely blinking and drinking him in. “Fold the rope in half so both sides are even, then rest the back of the loop around your neck with the ends in front.”

Charles obeys, settles the loop under the silver of his collar, in the hollow between where it rests and the nape of his neck. Like that, the rope looks almost like reins, and Erik thinks about using it to drag Charles in for a kiss, to hold him there without room for escape, silk chafing the back of his neck. “Tie three knots in it,” he says next, and points to the spot at the top of his pectorals, then the middle between his nipples, and to his solar plexus. The rope glides over Charles’ skin and he moans softly under his breath when he catches Erik’s gaze - they stare at one another through the screen while Charles’ hands work, slipping the rope over and under on itself until it’s knotted like a tie, and Erik says, steady and not at all breathlessly, “Take the two ends and put them one to either side of your cock and balls, Charles, then pull them between your legs and tight up against your asshole.”

Charles doesn’t make any noise at all, just stares at Erik with eyes as hot as stars while he does as he’s told. He reaches down between his legs and parts the rope around his cock, then takes the two ends and tucks them back between his thighs, passing them to his other hand. When Charles pulls the ropes upward behind his back they draw in tight on either side of his genitals and his mouth falls open, his head tilting back of its own accord on a silent gasp at the unexpected friction and pressure, and Erik can see it when Charles pulls harder on the ropes behind his back, elbow rising in an uneven jerk, tightening them further and rocking his hips forward against the air, against nothing, his cock rising until it is standing fully erect and swollen with arousal, the foreskin pulling back from the head.

Against the backdrop of their bedroom he looks - Erik doesn’t let himself reach down for his own erection, but he’s sharply aware of the cotton sheet covering him, every fibre of it prickling against his hypersensitive skin. “Put the ends through the loop at the back of your neck, Charles,” he says, and Charles must hear the fierce desire in Erik’s voice, because he glances up like a startled animal, eyes wide and caught. It takes a moment before Charles is able to comply with the order, and when he does he pulls on the ends until they’re tight and his body is held rigidly on either side by the ropes, framed front and back. “Not too tightly, you want to be able to sit down,” Erik says, letting a hint of humour come through the feral, unprincipled need to grab Charles and hold him down, and Charles obeys with a sigh, slackening it off just a little, though his hips are still jerking back and forth a little, rubbing the rope against the base of his cock. “Pull the ends around one on each side, under your armpits. The ends are going to go through the space between the first two knots.”

He talks Charles through the next two loops, and by the time they’re finished Charles is tied up from neck to thigh and Erik is beyond control, staring at the shimmering blue of the rope dark against his submissive’s pale skin, marking out a tortoiseshell pattern that leaves triangles and hexagons of flesh between the blue. There are thicker, coiled bands around his thighs, like garters at the fold between his leg and his groin, like the tops of stockings. Charles stands in front of the camera with his eyes shut and breathes deeply, and Erik can tell from his expression that he’s inhaling just to feel the constraint of the rope holding his chest in, his trapped cock heavy and red between his legs and dribbling pre-come. If Erik was there - he wishes he was there, so he could take hold of the ropes in his fists and use them to drag Charles onto the bed, to move him about as he pleased - he would have bound Charles’ thighs to his calves, made him kneel with the rope, tied his arms behind his back - 

But he isn’t there, and the image of Charles on the laptop screen is twice as tempting and torturous because of it. Erik’s mouth waters as he looks his submissive up and down and sees what he has made Charles do to himself, how completely Charles is his. “You look - ” he manages, words catching in his throat, and Charles sighs when Erik pushes down the covers and takes himself in hand, his submissive’s hips shifting forward toward him, desperate for touch. “You’re perfect,” Erik groans, and Charles bites his lip, hands trembling at his sides, watches as Erik jerks himself off. He doesn’t so much as move to touch himself even when Erik comes hard enough that he’s left seeing stars, arching back against the hotel bed, only slowly recovering enough to wipe his own fluids off with a tissue and all the while still staring at Charles in his self-made bondage, stood there on their rug with his hands curling and uncurling at his sides.

Charles is still hard, his cock erect and wet-tipped, his lips red and swollen from biting. 

“You’re going to go to bed without coming,” Erik says when he can speak again, the way he had planned when he first packed the boxes. Charles draws in a sharp breath, mouth not quite forming a protest, and his hips jerk forward, in a complaint all their own. He looks delicious like that, denied. Erik sighs, looking at him, because as much as Charles wants to complain he knows that this sort of denial is one of Charles’ favourite games, proving to Erik just how well-behaved he can be. “It’s not a punishment - you’re doing so well for me, Charles, you’re being such a good boy - ”

The full-body shudder this earns him, the closing of Charles’ eyes as he catches his breath, is a reward all of its own.

“I want you to go to work with this under your clothes tomorrow,” Erik continues, and those eyes fly back open, Charles blushing this time for a totally different reason, lust mingling with embarrassment, each magnifying the other. He really is perfect - shamed distress looks so good on him, and Erik loves that Charles loves it, though his submissive would never admit it aloud. He likes the pretence that Erik is the cause, that he is doing this to Charles and that Charles doesn’t gag for it every time. Erik just looks at Charles lazily from half-hooded eyes, bound at Erik’s say-so. “I want you to wear this all day, and every time you move I want you to think how good it’s going to be when you get home and I let you touch yourself, and remember that you’re mine and that rope is my power over you, and that you put it there yourself.”

“People will see,” Charles says quietly, shakily, and Erik says, “They won’t, but if they do, let them. They’ll know then, too. Don’t be embarrassed.”

Charles ducks his chin, jaw tightening as he wills himself back from the edge with a ragged inhale of breath, and lets Erik talk him back into their bed, where he lies down again on Erik’s side - there’s a moment where he turns his head and breathes deeply, nose buried against the pillowcase, arching into his bondage, and Erik feels so tender that he wishes he were a teleporter so he could take Charles into his arms and torment him into delirium.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some _very_ NSFW visual aids:
> 
>  
> 
> [Charles would look something like this, though this one is a woman.](http://www.knottyboys.com/code/single_galleries/dan_eros/dan_eros_02.php)  
> [And these are more beautiful pictures of what they might get up to henceforth ;D](http://bottan.dreamwidth.org/5388.html?thread=105484)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some really beautiful art has been done for this story since the last time I updated, for which I cannot express the amount of foaming at the mouth I've done. Thank you so much, Kannibal and Takhesismonster, for these - I love them!
> 
> Kannibal drew [Yasmin, Ayyad and Soorayah](http://kannibal.tumblr.com/post/28669975390/yasmin-soorayah-ayyad-from-tahariels-im) from chapter three, which are so perfect, they look so great!
> 
> Takhesismonster drew [this utterly lovely picture of Charles and Erik](http://takhesismonster.tumblr.com/post/28604677602/finally-i-read-tahariels-backseat-verse-series), which is giving me so many posture!kink feels, let me tell you.
> 
> And Spicedpiano gets all my thank yous for betaing this chapter for me with utter and amazing competence and patience ;)

Erik’s phone rings just as he’s telling Charles how good he’s being, and he pauses for a moment before saying, “I’d better take this,” over his laptop microphone, then calls the cellphone to his hand, already activating the call switch with a flicker of thought. “Erik Lehnsherr.”

“Hi, Erik, it’s Jean-Paul. I’m sorry to call you this early.” Jean-Paul sounds flustered, almost, and Erik frowns.

“It’s fine, I was up. Is everything okay?”

“Have you looked outside yet?”

“No,” Erik says, and glances at the screen; Charles has let his eyes slide closed while Erik’s attention was elsewhere, and Erik recognises the slow breathing of Charles dozing off, one hand curled loosely around the fabric of the pillow by his cheek. Erik sighs - no need to wake him, let him sleep - and gets out of bed, padding across the carpet towards the window. “What am I going to see?”

“Sandstorm,” Jean-Paul says glumly, and Erik whisks open the curtains to see the sky coloured a roiling green, the buildings in the distance covered in a yellow-white haze that is only getting closer. “A big one, which means the city grinds to a halt for the day. It’s like a snow day but without the benefits. Don’t worry about coming in - nobody’s going to be going outside until this passes.”

Erik just looks, for a long and quiet moment, as the cityscape is swallowed up by the approaching sand. It’s eerie, what with the soundproofing - though he can see the palm trees whipping around in the wind outside, canvases flapping and even cars rocking, he can’t hear any of it, stands silent and breathing, Charles asleep on the laptop screen behind him and nobody on the street to look and see him stood there naked at the window twenty-seven stories up, hand pressed to the glass. 

“How long do they usually last?” he asks.

“Anywhere between four hours and several days. This one looks to be about twelve hours, they think. So take a hotel day. They have a pool, a bar, room service. Stay indoors. I’m going to be in with Kyle for some quality time while I have the opportunity.”

“Show off,” Erik says, and only feels a little jealous when Jean-Paul laughs and rings off.

The hotel room is cool from air conditioning, and his skin prickles a little as he watches a plastic bag go rolling past, stiff and bellied out by the storm, before turning his back to the window, leaving the curtains open and taking stock of what he has for the day.

There’s a small living area with a couch, chair and a coffee table, as well as a taller dining table; a mini-bar, thankfully on the Stark credit card, and his laptop. Erik has brought a book with him, but hasn’t touched it since the plane - he’d bought it on a recommendation but the solution was blindingly obvious from about halfway through, and he has no desire to finish a mystery he’s already solved.

So instead he goes back to bed, and wallows, for a little while, in watching his submissive sleep through the webcam, dark blue rope like a necklace against the fine skin at the nape of his neck and the white sheets, stark and beautiful, draped across his shoulders hiding the rest. Erik shifts until he is lying as though he were spooning up behind Charles and watches Charles’ face shifting expressions as he dreams. 

After half an hour, though, the inactivity sends Charles’ laptop to sleep, too, and the picture cuts off, leaving the screen blacked-out. Erik closes the laptop screen reluctantly.

Time to get up, though there’s nothing to do.

When he sits up among the tangled bedclothes he can see the sandstorm still raging outside, dust and dirt particles flinging themselves in a thick mist against the windows and hiding Dubai from view. It casts an eerie shadow, the daylight not enough to light the room. He hasn’t yet had a chance to explore the hotel’s amenities; surely there must be at least a gym, if they have a pool. With that in mind, Erik gets out of bed for the second time that morning, stretching as he stands and scratching at his bare chest, and goes for his workout gear, forgoing a shower for now in favour of a quick and perfunctory wash of his hands and groin to get rid of the residue of the morning’s tryst with Charles. No need to clean what’s only going to get dirty. He didn’t bring much in the way of casual clothes, but he has a worn old shirt and track pants that’ll do. Erik pulls them on with quick efficiency, grabbing a towel out of the bathroom and his wallet before heading out to try and find the gym.

The corridors are near-silent, buffered from the outside world by the soundproofed rooms. Erik pads down the carpeted hall to the elevators without seeing anyone else, though he can hear what sounds like a movie playing from one of the rooms, muffled voices from another. There are at least a few people around, counting by the number of watches being worn around wrists.

Inside the elevator there’s a guide to the hotel, and Erik’s eyebrows rise as he reads through his options. The pool is in the basement, along with the gym, a full-service bar and a movie theatre with three daily showings; the top floor of the hotel is an enclosed observation deck, and inbetween the two is scattered a whole array of restaurants, shopping levels and bars, a spa… Erik wouldn’t be surprised to see a menagerie on the list. Still, unless they’ve been trained as spotters he’ll give the lions, tigers and bears a miss. He hits the button for the basement and can hardly feel the motion of the elevator at all but for the metal, watches instead the sand-strewn haze outside the glass outer wall of the car until they reach the ground and slide under the dark earth, hiding the sandstorm from view.

When he steps out at the bottom there are, finally, other people around. The bar is populated by a barman setting up new glasses for the day, and there are a few scattered guests sat at the tables eating breakfast, which makes Erik pause for a moment - but no, better to work out on an empty stomach and refuel after. The gym is visible through the double doors on the far side of the room. The number of machines in there is a pleasant surprise, as is the low number of other people in there already exercising in glorious isolation. There’s a pair of women on the treadmills, one man is sweating hard at the weight machines, and another couple are racing one another on the rowing machines in back, with only the bare minimum of chatter. Perfect.

Erik steps up to the nearest treadmill to warm up, and loses himself to the physical exertion for a while. It’s a good way to work out his physical frustration, too, because masturbation is only so satisfying after the very regular sex he’s been having with Charles since they bonded - oh, three months ago now. It feels simultaneously both longer and shorter than that, as though he has had Charles forever and for no time at all.

He runs, and lets himself find a zen place where all that matters is keeping going, the pleasurable burn in his muscles and the thrum of his blood through his veins. Afterwards he goes for a swim, the water cold against his overheated body and the trunks he buys at the gym kiosk, hotel-branded and just loose enough that he double-checks the drawstring is tight enough before getting in to swim laps, making sure they’ll stay on his narrow hips. Erik has nothing to be embarrassed about, but as permissive as the hotel is of its Western guests he suspects casual nudity would not go by - heh - unmolested.

There’s nobody on the free weights by the time he’s dried off a bit - he’ll shower up in the room - and so Erik finishes off his routine by working his power, lifting weights in sequence of lightest to heaviest with his mind while his arms do a little lifting of their own. It’s difficult to separate out what his mind is doing from what his body is doing - not to help out his muscles by lifting with his magnetism - but the focus is good training, and though he sees a few double-takes from other people in the gym when he starts out, nobody comments on his mutation or his using it in public. Mutants may be integrated into society but it doesn’t make them exempt from discrimination, and the kind of testosterone-stuffed assholes who like to spend their time building too much muscle on too small a body are the kind stupid enough to try and insult Erik when he’s clearly capable of lifting the entire set of weights at once without so much as touching them.

He ends by lining the dumbbells up in a vertical stack, end to end, and hefting them all together, around nine hundred pounds in total. He could probably do more, but he’s run out of weights. Someone starts clapping, and Erik only pauses for a moment before putting them all back in place, one by one, on the racks.

“Impressive,” the man says, and smiles a little when Erik turns around to face him, tossing his towel over his shoulder and tipping his head to expose his throat - Dominant, then. “You’re Erik Lehnsherr, right? Warren Worthington. The Third, if you’re counting. You might not remember me, I’m a friend of your sister’s.”

Worthington is a tall man, blonde, blue-eyed and square-jawed - classic All-American - but it’s the great white wings spreading out from his back that make him stand out, soft-edged feathers rustling in the breeze from the air conditioning. Erik’s not seen him in years, not since he was twelve and first living with Emma and Moira, but there’s a photograph of Worthington with Emma on the mantelpiece in his sister’s apartment, along with the Governor. “That’s right,” Erik says, exposing his own jugular briefly before grabbing his water bottle, taking a quick mouthful. “It’s been a while. What are you doing in Dubai?”

“Well, right now I was wondering if you’d be up to having some lunch with me.” Worthington shoves a hand back through his own sweaty hair. “I’m on my own on business and I could use the company. Bring Charles if he’s here - I heard about your bonding from Emma, congratulations. I’ve met him a few times, smart guy.”

Erik tries not to scowl, since it’s not Worthington’s fault he’s prodded a bruise. It feels strange to be looking him in the eye - last time Erik was a lot shorter, and it’s jarring to realise he’s an adult now, on a level playing field with someone he had only known as one of his sister’s adult friends. “He’s in New York. But sure. I’ll have to go shower and change first.”

“Oh, don’t worry, there’s no rush. It takes me a little longer than most to clean up, since I can’t get these wet without spending hours with the hairdryer,” the man says with a self-deprecating shrug. His wings rise and fall with the motion, the left one flicking out briefly to realign his feathers. “Meet me at the restaurant on the sixth floor in an hour?”

“Fine with me,” Erik says after checking his watch. “See you then.”

Worthington nods, and gestures past Erik at the weights. “You done with those?”

“I’m done. Have at them.”

Erik goes back up to his room and showers briskly, ignoring the three-page guide on how to use the fancy shower in favour of simply sloughing off the sweat and chlorine from his workout. It’s passed the time, anyway - it’s noon when he steps out of the bathroom, towel loosely wrapped around his waist to catch stray drips as he goes to pick out some smarter clothes for lunch. 

He snorts, tries to slough off the weird disconcerting feeling of being out of place, invited to have lunch with an old acquaintance of his sister’s, reminds himself he’s no longer that child. At least he’s out of short pants, and won’t have to answer questions about school.

The curtains are still wide open, and outside is a thick haze of sand, battering silently against the glass. Nobody’s out there to see him drop the towel to pull his briefs on, adjusting himself until his cock is comfortably tucked in, then taking a polo shirt from the top drawer and tugging that on over the top. No point in overdoing it. It’s not a business meeting. He adds a pair of slacks, and he’s buttoning the fly when he hears his phone buzz on the nightstand where he’d left it this morning when he went down to the gym.

His cell snaps into his palm when he calls the metal, and Erik looks down at the screen only to feel his eyebrows rise of their own accord. It’s from Charles - he rapidly calculates in his head, it’s four in the morning in New York, what could Charles possibly be doing awake - and so he unlocks the phone, opening the message.

There’s a moment where he doesn’t process what he’s looking at, pale cream and blue, and then abruptly Erik recognises Charles’ left hip - there’s a pair of freckles in the hollow of the bone that he likes to lave with his tongue, just tucked into the shadow of the silk rope binding the pale skin. He can see the thick garter of rope binding the top of Charles’ thigh at the bottom of the picture, and just a tiny bit of sheet at the edge, where Charles’ hip curves around to reveal the bed underneath.

The phone beeps again, a text message this time, and Erik reads it with his blood pulsing between his legs, shifting uncomfortably and wondering if he’s going to be late for lunch. [ _Srry, wkeup earlyy tried to check time. camra went of,_ ]Charles has written, [ _stll set to auto-fward phots to yu since last expermnt._ ] It goes off again. [ _Excuse spelling tired_.]

[ _No problem_ ,] Erik texts back, mouth dry, and flicks back to the photo. It is, at least, a thorough distraction from his social discomfort. [ _Go back to sleep._ ] He wants to bite the place where Charles’ hipbone becomes his thigh. His cock is throbbing, and he presses down hard against it with the heel of his hand, trying to will himself back down, but every time he starts to succeed the photo flashes up in his memory again and he loses the battle, has to start all over again. 

[ _Goodnight. Love you._ ]

Erik smiles. [ _Love you too._ ]

When he looks at the photo again - damn it, Charles is a tease even when he’s not trying - Erik only spends a few seconds fantasising over what he’s going to do to that hip before he notices the time, hissing and locking down the phone, shoving it into his back pocket along with his wallet and keycard. He’s going to be late.

 

~*~

 

Worthington is a more than acceptable companion for lunch - happy to talk about practical things instead of making small talk, and happy to concentrate on his food when it arrives without forcing Erik to split his focus between talking and steak. The staff had been uncertain of how to seat him until the older man had simply taken the chair and turned it sideways, sitting with the back of it against his left shoulder so his wings had space to spread out behind him. Erik thought it looked uncomfortable, and said so.

“It’s less uncomfortable than perching, pun intended, on the edge to make room for the joints,” Worthington - “Warren, please, we’re not in prep school,” - had said with a wry smile, as though he is more than used to explaining. “People think wings just fold right down flat to your back, but they don’t think about how much muscle and bone you need to attach something this heavy to the human skeleton. I’m lucky I’m well-off enough to get all my clothes tailored.” He turns to show Erik the back of his shirt, which has long slits cut up the back so that the middle is a separate panel he can button to the side panels once it’s done up under his wings.

The last time he’d seen Warren had been back when Erik was still angry with the world, gangly-limbed, sullen and avoiding other human beings as much as possible. Emma had dragged him out of his bedroom with her hand pinching tight around his upper arm, forcing him into the living room long enough to be polite and say hello, and he’d not had much time to take the man in, let alone his mutation. Now, Erik hums under his breath, impressed despite himself - though he can’t imagine they’re useful in everyday life, and indeed they must be rather more inconvenient than anything else, the wings are still beautiful, and he can see the strength in them where they protrude from the fabric, flexing idly like any other limb. “Can you fly with them?”

“It’s the only thing they’re good for, besides picking up women,” Warren says, breaking into a genuine smirk. “Though if my bones weren’t half-hollow I’d never get off the ground.”

Erik puts down his fork, his attention caught. “Bird-boned?”

“Something like that. Better than bird-brained,” Warren says, then, glancing up at Erik, winces, with an expression closer to a grimace than a grin. “Huh. I’d forgotten - that’s what Mrs Frost always used to say about me when she thought me and Emma were in the other room.”

The unexpected mention of _her_ is enough to send a jolt through his body, and Erik freezes, a shudder of revulsion running through him, momentarily speechless. When he finally smiles he can tell his best effort is less than warm. It seems ironic that the mere mention of that woman’s name is enough to make his blood run cold, but then, Hazel Frost has always striven to live up to her bonded name, having given up her own, less prestigious one. “I doubt she cared if you heard or not.”

Warren looks out the window at the swirling storm rather than meet Erik’s eyes. He can probably guess how Mrs Frost treated her husband’s bastard, if she’d been willing to insult the legitimate son of one of New York’s most prominent families within his earshot, if not to his face. In that moment he looks older, the way Emma so rarely does - age showing on his face, light catching in the fine lines there. “I saw her recently, actually. In Saks, in New York.”

If Erik’s blood had been cold before, it has turned to ice now, and he says in as calm a voice as he can, though he feels as though he is crackling as he moves, like snow underfoot, “In New York? Last I heard she’d moved to Paris.”

“I haven’t mentioned it to Emma, though I assume she would know.” Warren looks back around and takes in Erik’s expression, a look of sympathy crossing his face. “She hasn’t told you, I take it.”

“It’s nothing to do with me where Mrs Frost goes,” Erik says stiffly, and stabs at his steak with uncharacteristic public violence. “She’s not _my_ mother.”

“If it helps, I always thought she was a bitch.”

It startles a laugh out of him, and Erik wipes his hand over his face, manages a wry quirk of his mouth that might be called a smile, with a little imagination. “Never mind. Let’s talk about something else.”

“How about them Mets,” Warren says, not unkindly, and Erik puts his stepmother out of his mind as best he can.

 

~*~

 

He spends the afternoon in his room - _not_ brooding, just going through his emails and answering the inane emails his minions have sent him in his absence, which clearly nobody else is able to answer despite the extremely detailed handover document he had sent to them all before he flew out here, making sure they knew where to look for things and how to find their own asses; he had, in fact, considered including a map. Sometimes he thinks things would work better and be finished faster if they just fired everyone in his department and let Erik do everything, but then he remembers all the scut work he delegates to the minions and lets them stay, if only to avoid having to do it himself. 

At three o’clock he’s elbow-deep in troubleshooting a design for a school facility - they need something suitable for both baseline and mutant children to use - when his phone goes again, and Erik picks it up distractedly while he types out a few more notes, flicking the screen on twice before he manages to look away from the plans quickly enough to catch it.

And swallows his mouthful of cola down the wrong way, coughing and spluttering.  
 _  
_[ _The train is really crowded today, wish you were here,_ ] Charles has written, but it’s the picture that accompanies it that Erik is staring at, a dark arc of fabric tugged away from skin by familiar fingers and a view down inside it of Charles’ slim, bound chest, nipples pebbled from the sudden rush of cold train air and the arc of one collarbone, the inside of his sweater curving out and away from his torso to let Erik see right inside and under his clothes where the ropes are still on and Charles is still tied up, just as Erik ordered.

[ _Were you trying to check your email?_ ] he replies, and laughs when Charles texts back, [ _Oops. My finger must have slipped._ ]

[ _Liar._ ]

There’s a break in messages for a couple of minutes - between stations and cell signal, probably - and Erik can imagine Charles’ private little smile while he waits to send his response, can imagine him stood with chin ducked as he holds onto the pole in the train carriage typing out a response with his thumb, slow and careful. [ _I don’t know what you’re talking about. The signal is better inside my jumper._ ]

[ _If you bend over, can you feel my rope between your asscheeks?_ ] Erik sends back, then follows it with another text, [ _When you sit on your office chair today I want you to spend the first five minutes thinking about what I’m going to do to you when I get home. Sit with your hands in your lap and don’t touch your computer or papers. Tell Hank to mind his own business. When you get hard thinking about it don’t try to make it go away. I want you to work like that and try to concentrate while your body is begging for it. Do you understand?_ ]

There is another long pause.

[ _Yes, Erik._ ]

[ _This is your punishment for being a tease,_ ] Erik says, and tucks his phone into the breast pocket of his shirt, above his heart, so he will feel it if Charles texts him again.

Four hours later he gets a picture of the small of Charles’ back - he’d recognise the dimples above that plush, round ass anywhere, even with the rope running up the soft hollow of Charles’ spine and up out of the picture, at the bottom just delving into the crease between Charles’ buttocks, the barest hint of a shadow at the top of his cleft, leading down and in.

Erik’s breath is catching in his chest, deep and ragged, and he calculates swiftly in his head - it can only be lunchtime in New York, there’s still so much time left to go before Charles even gets home and already outside the sandstorm is dying down, as though getting ready to sleep through the night - it’s almost nine o’clock in Dubai, and the wreckage of his room service grilled cheese is on the table, and all he wants right then and there is to be at home so he can spank Charles thoroughly for his deliciously lewd behaviour, but he will have to be asleep by the time Charles gets back to their apartment if he’s to be any use at all in making up for lost working time tomorrow.

[ _You’re very lucky I’m not the sort of Dom who would make you kneel at the office,_ ] he replies, and gets a photograph of the back of Charles’ neck, his tousled curls and the rope lying underneath his collar, followed by a photograph of his clothes folded neatly on a tile floor Erik suspects is in the university bathroom.

[ _I wanted to show you how good I’m being._ ] He imagines Charles in the bathroom stall, naked but for the rope, desperately wanting to be touched but all a-tremble at the idea of being discovered, and still taking photographs for Erik. [ _I wanted to show you I kept it on all day like you told me so you would know what a good boy I am._ ]

It’s so intensely frustrating, to be here and know Charles is there, not to be able to reach out to him and communicate his feelings with touch. Erik feels skin-hungry, wants the reassurance of holding Charles down, of holding onto him and having Charles stay willingly, bend into the touch. [ _You’re always good,_ ] he types eventually, wants to say it into Charles’ ear, breath on the soft skin there and make his submissive shiver into it, a tremble of flesh against his own. [ _You have to work this afternoon. I love the pictures, Charles. I love you. But you’d better get dressed and eat something - don’t lie and say you already did - and go back to your office. I’ll reward you later._ ]

Eventually Erik has to go to sleep, and he lays on his back and stares at the ceiling for a long time, because the bed feels very empty without Charles there in his arms taking up too much of the bedding and compromising by lying as close to Erik as he can, worming his way ever closer and his mind a warm and humming swell against Erik’s, an embrace from a welcoming ocean.

He thinks of his stepmother, back in New York, thinks of her near Charles and feels so fierce a fury that he has to force his fists to unclench, reaching for his phone on the nightstand with hands that tremble.

[ _I miss you,_ ] he texts to Charles, and falls asleep with his cell resting on his chest, waiting for a reply.

 

~*~

 

It wakes him up the next morning, and he answers it without thinking about it, fumbling at the phone and failing entirely to do anything but grumble down the line when he gets it to his ear, rolling over onto his front and half-burying his face in the pillow, elbow propped up to keep the phone in place.

“Good morning,” Charles says, and he sounds like he’s laughing softly, his voice low and clear in that very British way of his, ringing clear as a bell even when it’s more murmur than speech. “Were you still asleep?”

“Were is relative,” Erik says, voice thick with drowsiness. His lashes are brushing against the linen, catching on it; he’s rolled into a cooler patch, and it’s pleasant on his bare skin, though it’s warming up rapidly. When he shifts he’s hyperaware of his whole body, though he can barely be bothered to move, limbs heavy. Every muscle movement feels magnified, tingling in the way he only ever gets while still half-asleep or right after working out.

“Mmm. Do you have to get up right away?”

Erik sighs, feels for the hands of his watch on the nightstand without looking. “Not for a while.”

“I have my fourth box,” Charles says, “but I’m not sure you’re awake enough to enjoy it.”

“Keep it for tomorrow.” Erik reaches down to adjust himself, pulling his penis into the dip of the mattress under his body before bringing his hand back up to tuck his forearm under his head. “Tell me what you’re doing. Tell me about your day. Be specific.”

“I’m still tied up,” Charles says, and there’s a sound of fabric as though he’s settling himself in their bed, getting himself comfortable. “Um. Specific. I’m lying on my back and when I stretch the rope bites into me and pulls tight. I have lines and knotmarks on my skin where it’s been all day. I was so embarrassed when you made me sit there this morning. I was so hard, Erik, and I’m sure Hank knew it - he has a heightened sense of smell, you know - oh, God.” Charles’ voice becomes muffled - he’s covered his face with his hand, is probably blushing hot and red, working himself up. “Hnnng - oh God, when I shift the rope presses so tight around my balls, it pinches - it kept rubbing me in class, and I had to try and hunch a bit to give myself some slack - ”

Erik makes a noise in his throat, low and vibrating, trapped between his chest and the mattress and reverberating through his body. His cock is filling between his legs, pressing against the bed. He was already half-hard, turgid with morning, but Charles…

“God, Erik - I’m, can I please, can I please touch myself,” Charles says, desperate and cracking, and Erik says “Do it,” before he even thinks about it, groans when he hears Charles’ sharp intake of breath, the shuddering exhale that follows. “Erik, it’s - I love it, I want you to tie me up all the time, I couldn’t - I wanted - oh, it feels. Good.”

“Did anyone see?” Erik asks, and even the thought of it makes him start rubbing off against the bed, hips rolling his erection against the soft dip of dampened cotton under him, the rest of him staying still and limp, just his hips rutting slowly. His cock is hard, swollen and sensitive, and each thrust sends heat down the length of him to pool in his belly, tightly coiling. “Did they see you’re mine?”

“I think one of the students might have. I kept trying to make it stop rubbing so hard at my hole, Erik, the rope is so tight between my asscheeks - I’m stroking myself, I wish it was you, I’ve got a hand clenched in the rope down my chest, pulling on it, I think he saw me when I ducked into an empty classroom to adjust it - I had to put my hand down the back of my pants.” Heavy breaths and the sound of skin on skin, and then rope creaking - Charles must be arching into it, stretching and straining the knots Erik made him put there.

Erik ruts harder against the bed, keeps his eyes closed, humping the mattress as though he has Charles trapped under him, lashed to the bed and writhing, unable to get away. The sheet is wet from his pre-come, and he rubs up and down in it, making a slick channel for himself. “Did you blush, Charles? I bet you were embarrassed. Did he stare at you? All tied up for me, like a present, belonging to me and there’s nothing you can do about it, you had to stand there and know he knew you had a rope up your ass. Next time I’ll tie a knot in it to rub at your asshole, I’ll grease it up and every time you sit down it’ll pop into you and keep you stretched and open, every time you stand up it’ll pop out again and you’ll beg to sit down, you’ll be loose all day - ”

Charles moans, loud and humiliated and loving it, and he makes this little gasping sound he always does when he’s close, a series of vowels, “Ah - ah - ah, oh - oh God,” and Erik’s hips are fucking the bed now, one knee pulling up and open to give him more leverage as he gasps, and Charles says, “I want you here, I want you to hurt me,” and Erik’s body just seizes up, coming so hard he can’t even shout, just grunts with ecstasy as he shoots come all over the bed, rubs himself through it even as he’s coming, ass clenching and mouth falling open as he tips over the edge. He can hear Charles’ orgasm over the phone, his submissive crying out, loud and wanton, probably every part of him tensing, tight and glorious, as his whole body falls into it, taut like a string for Erik to pluck.

“I came all over my rope,” Charles says after a long few minutes of panting and moans, working through the aftershocks. He sounds surprised and aggrieved, and Erik has to laugh, helplessly, lying in a pool of his own semen, and outside the sand has swept away the dirt and left it behind a scrubbed and beautiful day.

“You’ll have it all washed and pristine for me when I get back, won’t you, darling?” he asks, good humour curling his words at the corners. “I don’t want to come home and find my present to you all dirty.”

“Yes, Erik. Oh, and - I miss you, too.”

“I wish you were here,” Erik says, tiredly, and Charles says, “I’m glad.”

He spends a little time telling Charles exactly how to clean himself up, and by the time he has to get up for a shower Charles is yawning on the other end, and Erik wonders how he gets through even one day without this.

 

~*~

 

He gets through the day somehow, despite his exhaustion, and they power through all of the missed work and some of what had been planned for today, skipping the small talk in favour of efficiency. It’s the dull stuff now, the nitty gritty, and Erik is mostly relegated to sitting there and trying to look attentive while Jean-Paul runs through the fine details of the contract fulfilment with the Ghayara executives, trying not to fidget with any of the little bits of metal he can feel in the room around him.

When it finally gets to lunchtime Erik escapes as soon as is polite and leaves the building - customer relationship building be damned - and wanders out to one of the little cafes that dot the boulevard, leaning back in the sunshine in one of the outside chairs and ordering from the pretty submissive waitress who brings him his sandwich and coffee quickly and without speaking, but smiles at him when he thanks her, bobbing her head before ducking back inside and into the shade. It’s good to be away from all those _people_ , even if he’s now surrounded by strangers, taking their own lunches and talking in fluid Arabic - none of them try to talk to him, or draw him into another mindnumbing conversation about rebar. He finishes his sandwich in idyllic solitude.

The coffee is thick and dark, and he sips at it as he dials Charles’ mobile, but it rings to voicemail - Charles must be in the subway, on his way to work, Erik thinks, and puts down his phone with a feeling of dissatisfaction, sighing into his coffee. 

It’s a long afternoon.

Yasmin invites him out to dinner again, but Erik has had enough - he shakes his head and thanks her, but goes back to the hotel alone, takes a light dinner at one of the restaurants, and goes to bed early, stripping down and leaving the curtains open so he can watch the city lights twinkling outside, white and blue and yellow, gleaming off polished steel and wide wave-tossed sea alike.

He only wakes briefly when the bed dips, grumbling and shifting ungracefully over to make room, and Charles says, “Sssh, darling, go back to sleep.”

Erik does.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With thanks, as ever, to the preternaturally patient **Spicedpiano** ;)
> 
> And guys, look at [this beautiful art](http://takhesismonster.tumblr.com/post/29660802039/games-with-shibari-im-still-in-tahariels) by **Takhesismonster**! This is some gorgeous shibari, I love it  <3
> 
> And **acrosssss** is translating the fic into Chinese! The first chapter can be found [here](http://www.mtslash.com/viewthread.php?tid=70435&extra=page%3D1).

Erik wakes up slowly, with his nose buried in Charles’ hair, breathing in the sweet scent of the shampoo only Charles uses. It’s deeply familiar and comforting, as is the way they’re tangled together on his side of the bed, his arms holding Charles close and tight so that their breathing pushes their chests together and away, together and away, breathing in sync. His sub is like a heat-seeking missile when asleep - no matter the weather he gravitates to the warmest point in the bed, which seems to be either on top of or under Erik, and stays there like a limpet, fitting himself to all the hollows of Erik’s body until it’s too comfortable for Erik to try to escape.

It requires no thought to buss a kiss against Charles’ hairline, so conveniently right in front of Erik’s lips, and then - he frowns, blinking his eyes open, because Charles shouldn’t be here.

Confused, Erik leans up on his elbow and looks blankly down at his submissive, indisputably in bed with him in Dubai, and as though he senses the attention - he probably does - Charles mumbles sleepily, rolling onto his back still within the curve of Erik’s arm and opens his eyes to look up at Erik. The smile that breaks across his face is heartbreakingly lovely, those sharp blue eyes of his befuddled with sleep, face flushed from being hidden in the crook of Erik’s neck. 

“Good morning,” Charles says, yawning, as though it is perfectly normal for him to be here, and perhaps it is.

It’s bright outside already where Erik left the curtains open before going to bed, and the sunlight makes the sheets blindingly white against Charles’ pale flesh. There’s a sense of unalloyed pleasure in the beat of Charles’ mind against his - and how Erik has missed that mental presence, the gentle brush of thoughts between them that is nearly always there now, that has been absent these past four days. He’s still sleep-stiff and drowsy, and Erik can’t decide what he wants to do first: demand what on Earth Charles was thinking, ask how he got here, or bite him hard enough to make Charles whimper, then kiss him until he can’t breathe. Quite aside from how Charles got into his hotel room, then simply climbed into bed with him and went to sleep without waking him.

And then Erik looks some more, and realises Charles is _still wearing_ the shibari rope, tied around his body like the ribbon on a present, and Erik loses his train of thought. He wraps his fingers around the central column that runs down Charles’ chest and drags him up into a kiss by main force, lifting him a little from the bed, his other hand tangling in Charles’ hair and forcing him to stay where Erik wants him. Charles makes no effort to support himself with his elbows, just lets Erik suspend him there and moans wantonly into Erik’s mouth, kissing him back desperately, his hands coming up to clutch at Erik’s shoulders and run over the powerful muscle there. It’s so, so easy for Erik to work his thigh between Charles’ legs and press up into his submissive’s hardening cock and - he realises with a shudder of fierce arousal - grinding the rope into Charles’ perineum, trapping it where it pulls tight on either side of his genitals.

He only pulls away from the kiss because he needs air, and he leans back enough to examine Charles as though something might have changed in the five nights he’s been away from home, but he looks just the same, gasping, breathless, dishevelled in the best way. “What are you even doing here?”

Charles lowers his eyes, suddenly sounding tentative, though his hands are still holding tight to Erik’s shoulders. There’s an aura of unapologetic self-satisfaction about him, though, that puts the lie to the expression. “I took some time off. I was under orders, Erik, it’s not my fault.”

Under orders? Erik’s back stiffens at that, fire rolling through him, and his hold on Charles shifts from supportive to dominating - he pulls harder on the rope around Charles’ chest, shifting his grip downwards so that it forces Charles into an arch, back bending to flex with the bondage. When Charles gasps Erik uses the hand in his hair to drag Charles’ head back, exaggerating the shape, presses his mouth to Charles’ throat so that his sub will feel the words vibrating there through the tender, drum-taut skin. “Whose orders? And why are you taking orders from anyone but me?”

Charles’ breath hitches, but he can’t quite contain his masochistic squirming, either, feeling out the boundaries of his entrapment. “I was only following the rules you set me - I’m to obey Emma in your absence, unless her orders contradict yours. Was that wrong?” He pulls against Erik’s grip, trying to lift his head, then stops when Erik growls, goes obediently limp in his grasp, submitting to the hold.

Emma. Of course. Erik scowls, but Charles was only doing as he’d been ordered. He lowers Charles back onto the mattress more gently than he’d picked him up, so he is cradled by the mattress rather than bouncing off it, and moves to loom over him, boxing him in with a hand by either shoulder. His submissive keeps his eyes down, tousled hair curling around him on the pillow, but Charles’ hands are still running restlessly over Erik’s chest and down his arms. “She made you use your leave?”

“And she called your work to use some of yours, too,” Charles says, limp and malleable under Erik. Now that Erik has relaxed his hold he is strangely serene, blinks slowly and languidly, as though he might fall back to sleep at any moment. “Please, Erik.”

“Please what?”

“Please tell me what to do to make you pleased with me.” Erik’s fingers tighten reflexively in Charles’ hair and the moan this shakes out of Charles is shockingly loud, his head bending back of its own accord, Charles staying perfectly still otherwise though his chest heaves on a sob, white teeth pinching at the swollen swell of his lower lip. “It’s not the same when you’re not physically there. I can’t feel it when you’re pleased with me, I have to imagine it and it’s not nearly as good. Please tell me - ”

“You’re a good boy,” Erik says, pulling on Charles’ hair with the one hand and stroking his face with the other, fingertips trailing down Charles’ auburn-stubbled cheek, rough with morning bristle that glints in the light. “You were right to do what Emma said. I’m very pleased with you, just not with her.”

Charles makes a sound that goes right to Erik’s cock, the best sort of hurt noise he usually makes while Erik is doing something more to him than just praising him, and Erik has to bend to press a kiss to the corner of Charles’ open mouth where his ever-present smile usually hides, then another to the soft flutter of his eyelid, the space between his brows at the bridge of his nose, then bites gently at the curve of Charles’ cheekbone, not enough to leave a mark, but enough for Charles to feel the pinch of his teeth, the sharp edge of potential pain. Charles’ cock is hard and pressing up against Erik’s thigh, rubbing against him as Charles’ hips rise and fall. 

“How did you even get here?” Erik asks when he pulls back, and Charles sighs, sounding far away and blissful when he says, “Emma hired Azazel. Did you know teleporters have to go through customs if they bring passengers?”

Of course she did. And no doubt that Russian asshole took delight in having both excuse and permission for touching what’s Erik’s, knowing that Erik has no leeway for retribution. Azazel probably laughed himself sick.

Erik is hard, cock throbbing between his legs, and there’s a part of him that wants to reestablish his claim in the most thorough way possible, but…

“I still have to go to work today,” he says, and checks the time - there’s enough, say, for him to turn Charles over his knee and spank him properly for being so wonderfully bad, first his teasing with the photographs, and then this, turning up without warning Erik that he’s been signed off work without his knowledge - but not enough time to really fully appreciate the bondage itself, the rope which lies in such lovely contrast to Charles’ pale and freckled skin, binding his thighs and body in a soft cage of Erik’s control. “I’ll be calling Emma about this.”

“Mmm.” Charles struggles a little when Erik shifts to pin his hips down by settling his knee on Charles’ thigh and pressing hard enough to dimple the flesh, but it’s more testing than anything else, because once he’s determined that he can’t get loose Charles’ lips part on a shaking breath, and he leans his face into the gentler of Erik’s hands, which by default means the other is pulling harder on his hair. Erik feels a burst of potent possessiveness wash through him, and Charles moans, practically swooning.

“Stay put,” Erik says, and reaches over him for the bedside phone.

He orders them breakfast for about forty-five minutes’ time - he does need to eat before leaving for one last long day of meetings, and it gives him a concrete time limit by which he needs to be up off of Charles and ready to face the outside world. When he hangs up he puts the phone back down on the nightstand and turns back to Charles underneath him in their cocoon of sheets, still and obedient though he swallows tightly when he feels Erik’s gaze back on him. There’s a thick, honeyed sensation of anticipation bleeding over telepathically, and when Erik runs his fingers along the lines of rope on Charles’ chest it’s so soft and smooth, the silk sleek under his touch. He considers his options, because as lovely as it looks on him it runs too tightly between Charles’ legs to draw aside, and what he really wants more than anything right now is to fuck Charles incoherent.

“Hands down at your sides, palms up,” he says, and Charles obeys, lays them down out of Erik’s way, though his fingers are twitching with the want to touch.

He reaches for the knot that sits just under Charles’ navel, and there’s a wave from Charles of _what - no - oh!_ as he realises why Erik is taking it off, and a rush of heat that starts in Erik’s mind but runs down his body like water, sluicing down through him from head to foot as he pulls the first of the rope ends loose. Charles’ legs spread further, as much as they can with Erik kneeling over his body, and he draws them up when Erik trails the rope back to his left thigh to start unwinding the garter there. He trails the soft tip of the rope over the skin, and it twitches under the touch, the muscle taut where Charles is holding himself still to be unbound.

He’s lovely.

Five times around, the thigh underneath flushing pink with the increased blood flow, and Erik bends his head to kiss the soft inner skin, licking a line up along towards Charles’ groin and over those freckles on his hipbone.

His sub groans, cock straining between his legs, but stays still, “Please - ”

“Other thigh,” Erik says, and Charles lifts obediently, toes curling as the rope drags. His hair is a tangle around his face, his skin lightly sweating despite the AC, and Erik is breathing hard himself, two long ends of rope loose now that he pulls up to unloop them from the lowest knot on Charles’ belly, following the line of his lowest rib. The binding winds around and under Charles’ back, and so Erik slides a hand under Charles’ shoulder and pulls him with him as Erik sits up, rearranges Charles’ limbs for him so they’re sat upright in the middle of the tangled bedclothes with Charles in Erik’s lap, legs splayed wide and supported only by Erik’s arm hooked around his back, hands still limp and immobilised by Erik’s command. 

The more Erik unwinds the looser Charles’ body becomes, as though even as he’s released from his bondage he moves further into Erik’s power, gives over more control. Even his mind is lax with surrender, their erections brushing up alongside one another in Erik’s lap, the wet head of Charles’ trailing pre-come along Erik’s belly, the tip of Erik’s catching in Charles’ navel. He groans, pushing forward against Charles’ skin even as he loosens the last of the chest loops, leaving only the long, main rope that loops down from Charles’ neck, down his spine and between his legs, then back up his front.

“Lift up,” he says into Charles’ ear, and Charles obeys, bracing his knees against the mattress and lifting himself up over Erik’s thighs so he’s looking down at Erik while Erik drags the rope between his legs, deliberately slow, rubbing across Charles’ hole and perineum, then pulls them up and away from his sub’s trapped cock, and reaches up to pull the last loop over Charles’ head, untucking it from where it lies under his collar and being careful of his ears, mussing his hair. 

Charles settles back down onto his lap and leans against Erik’s chest, resting his face on the broad span of Erik’s shoulder and curling in as though there’s nowhere he’d rather be.

When Erik thwaps the folded rope gently against the curve of Charles’ back his sub moans and rolls with it, grinding against Erik’s belly. He’s so relaxed, even though Erik can feel how turned on he is, and Erik feels ridiculously protective, wants to pull Charles in and keep him there where he’s safe and _his_ and nobody else can come near him, wants to be soft with him. There’s a little tin of lube in the nightstand Erik has been using on himself, and he uses his power to slide the drawer open - metal runners are wonderful things - and the tin smacks into his palm when he reaches for it, lid popping off with a thought.

“I’m going to fuck you,” he says, and Charles shudders, arches his spine so as to push his ass back and up, exposing his hole. Erik’s slicked-up finger traces circles around and around, rubbing and stroking the puckered skin until it’s sleek and relaxed, twitching under his fingertip and opening for him to slip inside where it’s hot and tight. Charles is mouthing at Erik’s shoulder, lips and tongue working the skin there while Erik pushes his finger deeper into Charles’ asshole, which clenches around the intrusion.

“I missed you,” Charles says as Erik strokes him on the inside, kisses the arch of Charles’ neck, sets his teeth there and bites down hard enough to bruise, then sucks hard and sharp when Charles cries out. He works the second finger inside while Charles is still tense and dripping, hips jerking back and forth between the friction of Erik’s stomach against his cock and his fingers in Charles’ ass. It thrusts him against Erik’s erection too, and he has to bring his hand down from Charles’ back to his hip to keep him from frotting against him too hard and setting Erik off early.

He scissors his fingers inside of Charles’ body, spreading him wide, and starts edging a third finger inbetween the first two as his sub quivers and groans. “I love you,” he says, and stretches Charles open, kisses his way up Charles’ neck and to the soft space behind his ear, closes his teeth gently around the lobe and tugs until Charles’ head tips back and away from Erik’s shoulder so he can get at his mouth to kiss him.

Erik’s fingers slide out while they’re still kissing, tongues tangled together, and he reaches under Charles to lift him forward and angle them together, lines himself up at that slick little entrance and pulls Charles down onto his dick. He breaches the relaxed ring of muscle with a long and shuddering groan that Charles echoes, gasping as he opens, opens, opens around Erik, hot and wet and tight, gravity sliding him down onto Erik as his body is pressed open from the inside to make room.

When he’s fully seated, ass flush against Erik, they pause for a long moment, pressed together from groin to mouth, which is when Erik thwaps him again with the rope, a little harder this time. Charles clenches on a loud, sharp inhale, squeezing tight around Erik’s cock and rocking forward and back, circling his hips and sending a sharp electric rush up Erik’s spine. He hits him again, harder, with a loud slapping sound of the rope hitting his flesh, and Charles yelps and starts to move more vigorously, bending his head and pressing his mouth unbidden to Erik’s, gasping breathlessly, lips sloppy with pleasure.

“More?” Erik asks, and Charles gasps out a “Yes,” before Erik hits him again, letting out a strangled scream and rising up a little so he can shove down again onto Erik’s cock, takes the encouragement when Erik thrusts up to meet him and keeps up the motion, riding Erik with only the strength in his thighs, his own erection trapped between them.

Erik is grunting with every thrust, clutching at Charles’ body on top of his with the hand he’s not using to beat him with the rope. His voice when he speaks come out strangled, gravelled with arousal. “Stroke yourself.” 

It’s so tight and hot and wet inside of Charles - masturbation has nothing on this, the slick squelch of fucking into a willing, squeezing hole, balls slapping against Charles’ ass when they jolt together, the sudden press of Charles’ knuckles against Erik’s sweating stomach when Charles takes himself in hand, jacking himself off hard and fast; his forehead is braced against Erik’s so they can both watch, the fine flush of red making Charles’ freckles stand out on his skin like spattered ink, the little grazes and sore spots scarlet where the rope has rubbed from being left on so long. Erik fucks up into him harder, brings his hand down so that the rope smacks hard across Charles’ round buttocks, and Charles screams when he comes, eyes clenching tightly shut and mouth falling open on a long wave of pleasure, projecting it out to Erik like a lightning bolt rolling down his spine and out through his cock with his come, shooting his load up and into Charles on a white moment, blanking out.

He comes back to himself with Charles still on top of him, both of them grabbing hard at one another, tangled up and tied together, and there are tears on Charles’ face from coming, tears Erik collects with his tongue, traces back up to the corners of his eyes where he presses his mouth as he tries to catch his breath.

“Mine,” he says, uncurls his fingers from the rope and lifts both hands to stroke over Charles’ hot flesh, caressing everywhere he can reach. “I missed you too, Charles.”

“I hear breakfast coming,” Charles says, sighing happily, and doesn’t fuss though he makes a displeased noise as Erik pulls out and manhandles him down onto his back on the bed, head on the pillow, and gets up so he can draw the sheet over Charles’ body and hide his semen-spattered dishevelment from view. There’s a robe on the back of the bathroom door that Erik has never used, and he goes to fetch it, comes back out shrugging it on over his shoulders and laughs when Charles sends him a feeling of disgruntlement. He ties it shut anyway, so the poor bellboy doesn’t get an eyeful. 

When he opens the door to the knock, the man who wheels the trolley in takes one look at Erik and a second at Charles and clearly knows exactly what has been going on, but says nothing, and is smart enough not to look at Charles again when Erik shifts instinctively forward onto the balls of his feet, has to repress the urge to stand between them, hackles raised.

He tips the guy more than he probably should, but it can go on the company tab if they’re going to start letting his sister book vacation time for him.

“Stay there,” Erik says when Charles makes to get up, and brings the trolley over to the bed with him, dropping the robe to the floor to tidy up later. He’s going to have to eat quickly, but he still hands Charles his breakfast first, a plate of scrambled eggs and smoked salmon that earns him a bright smile from his submissive. It’s Charles’ favourite. Erik has a fry-up for himself, and he sets the plate onto the nightstand to cut up his sausage and hash browns, groans over the first mouthful. “Today you’re going to stay in bed all day.” Erik glances up at Charles, whose fork has stopped halfway to his mouth, surprise on his face. Erik smiles. “Don’t get out unless you have to go to the bathroom. I’ll bring you your bag so you can reach it, but I want to find you naked and in bed when I get back.”

“What time are you finished with work?” Charles asks, trying to sound casual, but Erik knows him too well. If he hadn’t just come all over himself Charles would be hard now - he loves it when Erik pretends he might not let him get up for work, or leaves him tied up in bed while he goes off to do something else.

Erik smirks. “You’ll just have to wait and find out. Now eat your breakfast.”

“Yes, Erik.”

His breakfast really is too good to rush, but Erik does it anyway, kisses Charles’ temple when he gets out of bed to hop in the shower and scrub himself down as quickly as possible so he won’t stink of sex when he gets to the Guyara offices. It feels odd to be getting dressed without Charles’ hands smoothing down his shirt and fastening his cufflinks, but Charles remains obediently leant up against the headboard and watches him with a hot and focused gaze, and only demands a goodbye kiss before Erik leaves, a wet press of mouths that drags out overlong even though Erik knows the driver will be waiting downstairs for him.

“I have to go,” he says eventually when he pulls back, and Charles sighs and says, “I guess I’ll just have to entertain myself all day alone, then.”

“Well, if you would come out here before I finished my work,” Erik retorts, and fetches his briefcase. “Be good, Charles.”

“Yes, Erik,” Charles says, and stays where he’s been put.

 

~*~

 

Erik comes back that evening and spends an hour working Charles up to the very edge of orgasm in the bath before working him back down again away from the edge without ever quite tipping over - Charles moans and whines and lets him take him back to bed, presses up into his hands when Erik massages cream into every inch of his skin, hisses with pleasure-pain when Erik focuses on the little rubs and wounds from the shibari where Charles had worn it too long.

“We’ve been invited out with some of my Dubai colleagues tomorrow,” Erik says while he’s working on Charles’ chest, and Charles opens his eyes, immediately interested. “Oh?”

He shrugs, smoothing his hand over the firm plane of Charles’ pectoral. “Yasmin and Ayyad, and I would presume Soorayah too. I think we may be going to a water park or something. We’ll have to get you some swimwear.”

Charles’ mouth quirks, and then he’s laughing, and before Erik can ask why he says with his mind - his mouth is still laughing - _I’m not very modest at the moment, all covered in bites,_ and Erik has to laugh too. He takes Charles out to dinner in the restaurant at the top of the hotel where they can look out over the city lights, the sand of two days ago already swept away after the storm, the patio left sparkling and scrubbed clean, and listens intently to Charles’ excitement over what they can do with their week off and what he’s been doing with Hank and his research, and feels utterly content.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter! With thanks, as ever, to **Spicedpiano** , for the beta <3
> 
> Reference images at the end!

Yasmin is waiting for them by the front gate of the water park, leaning up against the stone column by the gate in the shade. When she catches sight of Erik she grins, wide and pleased, and waves enthusiastically - the ornaments swinging from the tips of her horns sway and sparkle in the sun, and she beckons them over to her with both hands. “Good morning,” she says once they break through the last of the crowd waiting to join the queue at the ticket booths, turning her smile on Charles, who Erik can see - with a burst of dry amusement - is immediately charmed by her visible mutation. “You must be Erik’s Charles! We have heard a lot about you. Erik did not say you were so pale, I hope you did bring suncream for your skin!”

“Slathered from head to foot,” Charles says cheerfully, leaning easily into Erik’s side. “It’s lovely to meet you.” 

The loose scarf he draped over his hair and under his hat before they left the hotel brushes against Erik’s shoulder, gossamer-light and floating a little in the sea breeze, fit to blow off entirely if he catches the wind at the wrong angle. Erik tucks the loose end back over Charles’ collarbone and bares his throat briefly for Yasmin, who returns the gesture neatly. “Thank you for this,” he says once he straightens again, gesturing at the gates of the park behind her. “It’s very kind.”

Yasmin snorts. “Oh, do not mind that. It is an excuse, a flimsy one. I can call it a business expense and pay for my submissive and friends to have a good day playing instead of sweltering in the office. It is no hardship. Now, I have the tickets already - here they are - and Ayyad and Soorayah are inside waiting on us.”

The tickets handed over, she leads them into the waterpark, waving at the attendants as they walk through. It’s too hot to get too close to one another, but Erik slings an arm around Charles’ waist anyway, pulls him in hip-to-hip. Charles just grins up at him as they walk, sunglasses hiding the crinkles at the corners of his eyes. In his t-shirt and swimming shorts Charles is well-covered, just his arms and legs left out for public view. There’s a little blob of suncream under his chin, and his cheeks are already looking a little pink, though that’s more likely the heat than sunburn.

Erik smiles back, content despite the heat, and they walk through an archway into the park proper, stopping for a moment to look around.

Once inside the gates they are in a wide, open space, enormous pools of clear blue water studded with splashing children and adults, yelling and laughing as they swim. The pavements surrounding the pools are packed with sunloungers, most of them occupied by men in briefs and women in bikinis, some subs rubbing suncream on their Doms or vice versa, some in the shade of wide umbrellas curled up with a book. Further back Erik can see the water slides and wave areas, echoing with far-off shrieks.

“None of the other tourists seems to be dressing for the culture,” Charles says, looking around at all the couples and families wandering about in bright-coloured bathing suits. None of the obviously non-Arab subs are wearing head coverings, and most of them are dressed in what they would wear in California, say, or the Mediterranean.

“They do not, mostly, in the very tourist areas - not many are so willing as to go for the sort of headcovering they would need for swimming,” Yasmin says, shrugging. “It is a compromise - locals of course maintain hijab, but only the most ardent Muslims are foolish enough to suppose they can enforce our rules in the water park or most of the resorts. That most of the foreign submissives cover their hair in the city is very positive indeed. We appreciate the respect.”

“It’s only polite,” Charles says, and Yasmin smiles.

“That is why you can be my favourite,” she says, and winks at Erik when he raises a possessive eyebrow. “Come along, we will go to find my other two favourites.”

Erik looks about with interest as they walk along the side of the main pool in the shade of the covered walkway that fronts the gift shops, following the curve of the water deeper into the park. Heat is radiating from the paving under their feet, even out of the direct sunshine, and he’s abruptly glad they came after the swelter of midday - the park is busier, but even in the water high noon would have been unbearable. Their path takes them closer to the more activity-based areas, and the screams are a little louder, along with raucous laughter and loud shouts in Arabic, English and a spattering of other languages, some of which Erik speaks and some of which he doesn’t. He can feel Charles’ cheerfulness radiating from the mind beside his just like the heat, curls his fingers a little tighter on Charles’ hip and gets a direct waft of enjoyment back from his sub.

 _I like her,_ Charles thinks to Erik, attaching the idea of Yasmin’s horns to the thought as if there were any doubt.

 _You would, since she said you’re her favourite,_ Erik thinks back wryly as they move away from the main path and down a smaller side-way between buildings. There’s a smaller, quieter pool up ahead, and what smells like a restaurant. He spots a tall, familiar figure at one of the tables by the pool just as Yasmin hurries her step, and Ayyad gets up to greet them as they arrive, ducking his head until Yasmin acknowledges him with a gentle touch to the side of his face, just on the edge of his hijab, not quite touching his skin.

“Welcome,” Ayyad says once he’s greeted his Dom, and offers his hand to Charles, who takes it willingly. “Soorayah is just getting drinks. I am Ayyad.”

“Charles.”

Ayyad smiles. “I assumed. Your Erik told us much about you.”

Erik just shrugs and is glad his expression is mostly hidden by his own sunglasses when Charles looks up at him, knows his nonchalance does not hide his embarrassment from Charles, who he can feel cat-curled in the corner of his mind as always. “Ayyad and Soorayah are very nosy.”

“That is true,” Yasmin says with a laugh, and reaches for the hem of her dress, pulling it up over her head to reveal her bathing suit underneath. It’s black and sleek, and covers her from collarbones to knees, leaving her arms bare to the sun. “Ayyad, will you swim today?”

“I will, but Soorayah has decided not today.” The lanky man reaches for the collar of his robe and unfastens it, shrugging it off to reveal a wetsuit underneath. When he shifts Erik notices it runs right up underneath his headscarf, and then Ayyad reaches for that as well, unpinning it at his temple and winding the fabric back down and around until it leaves him as undressed as Erik has seen any Arabic submissive, covered from head to foot in black neoprene, only his face, feet and hands exposed. “She has reached a good part in her book and wishes to finish it so she can argue about it with her friend online. She brought her tablet.”

There’s a quiet clink of ice shifting from behind them, and flip-flops slapping against hot paving. “It is a very good book,” Soorayah says, her breath fluttering the veil over her face, and Erik steps out of the way to let her through with a tray of mist-sided glasses, which she places down on the table. “Zainab claims I will go mad for the ending, she is usually right.”

“Oh, what are you reading?” Charles asks, and Soorayah smiles, only the crinkling of her eyes to give her away.

They start talking about the book - it’s a murder mystery, apparently, though in Arabic, so though she shows it to Charles there’s no chance of his reading it without reading her mind - and Erik turns his attention back to Yasmin, jerking his head at the water and pulling his t-shirt off over his head so he’s left bare-chested in the hotel swimshorts he bought the other day. “I’m going to go cool down.”

Yasmin glances down and up at his torso teasingly, wiggling her eyebrows, but finishes folding her dress and tucks it away into a large bag under the table, reaching up to remove her horn ornaments. “We will join you - Ayyad?”

“Soorayah, we are going,” Ayyad says, and gets a distracted nod from the woman, who is talking intently with Charles. He touches her briefly on her shoulder and she glances around at them for a moment before nodding again, with greater attention.

When he finally slips into the water it’s cool and pleasant on his overheated skin, and Erik sighs with satisfaction even as he has to start kicking to keep from sinking right under, the bottom too deep to reach even on tiptoe. Once he’s steady he ducks his head to get his hair wet, running his hands through it once he comes back to slick it away from his face. Before Ayyad can hand Yasmin into the water Erik kicks off and swims hard for the far side in the efficient frontcrawl he uses at the gym, then, when he reaches the far side, turns and swims back to the two of them, coming up short and treading water. He can’t help glancing over their heads at their table, where Charles has occupied one of the loungechairs to sit cross-legged in his t-shirt and shorts, is gesturing enthusiastically with both hands. He must feel Erik’s gaze, because he looks back and waves, has to grab for his hat when the breeze threatens to blow it off.

A wave of water slaps Erik in the side of the head and he lets out a startled yelp, blinking water out of his eyes when he turns to look at Yasmin, who is very clearly amused. “Stop mooning and swim,” she says, and kicks off into the pool.

It’s not too busy here, off the beaten track, and they swim for a while before pausing against one of the artificial rock formations at the far side, which keeps them contained from a steep drop and overlooks more of the park. The part directly below them seems to consist of the ends of various monstrous waterslides. He spends a while watching the people as they land - some of them at speed - long enough for Yasmin and Ayyad to swim off by themselves, and after another few minutes he feels a warm body slip in next to his own, Charles’ bare torso pressing up all along his side as he swims up to join him. Erik rearranges his arm so Charles can get in under it, and his sub doesn’t so much as hesitate, moves in as close as he can.

“It feels so happy here.” Charles’s hair is bare and dripping wet, the waves of it drenched to his scalp and hanging longer with the weight of the water. “Everyone is having fun.” He drags himself up the wall a little way, arm muscles straining as he pushes down, the long strong line of his back sliding free of the water, and looks at the people below with carcrash fascination. Bare, it’s impossible to forget how strong Charles is in his own right, tendons taut and easy under the skin. It’s all Erik can do not to touch all of that, affection and lust brimming over until it earns him a knowing, blushing look back over Charles’ shoulder, chin curled downward so it’s almost coy. 

“Shall we swim?” Erik asks, tugging on Charles’ thigh under the water, and his sub lets himself be pulled back down into the pool and away from the wall to do another circuit together, ankles and wrists crossing from time to time when they swim too close.

After stopping for a drink - the bars at the park do serve alcohol, to serve the tourist trade - they end up on the rides, Yasmin demanding they all take one of the rafts down the highest slide of all. They sit with Erik and Yasmin in the middle, subs at the front and back, and even Erik lets loose a whoop of adrenaline-fuelled exhilaration, uses his power in a sudden fit of mischief to fling them a little higher and farther from the end of the slide so that he ends up with both Charles in front and Yasmin behind him clutching at him for dear life, screaming and laughing.

“Hands off,” Charles says with a twitching mouth, feigning jealousy, during the sudden silence after they land, spinning madly in the centre of the deep water until the artificial current catches them to drag them out of ground zero, and Yasmin holds her hands up with an amused look on her face, leaning back against Ayyad and kicking lazily with one leg dangling over the side, toes trailing in the water.

It takes a little while to reach the end of the channel where the attendants help them out of the raft, and they wander back around to where they left Soorayah, find her typing away furiously on her tablet computer, fingers flying over the screen. “Zainab was right,” she says in English without looking up, once everyone else is settling back down at the table. “It was a good ending.”

“I hope you have had some water,” Ayyad replies, glancing at the bare table. “It is hot today.”

“Hmm,” she says, does not put down her tablet. “I have been in the shade, at least. You have all not come back for suncream at all.”

There’s a moment then before Charles says, “Erik, your shoulders!” He projects an image of reddening skin to Erik, who reaches back and winces to find the flesh hot and taut to the touch. It doesn’t hurt yet, but no doubt it will soon enough - he curses in his head, tries to twist to get a better view, but there’s not much to see but the burn.

“Damn. Put some more cream on them for me.” He sits down sideways on the sunlounger so Charles can reach and bends his head forward when the lotioned fingers immediately go to the back of his neck. He can hear Charles enjoying himself despite the burn, and tries not to shift about under the hands running all over his back, ignores Yasmin and Ayyad politely ignoring the two of them. _Try not to make too much of a show of it,_ he thinks wryly, and feels Charles’ snort between his shoulderblades, a waft of warm air against the damp and drying skin.

He does his own arms and front, then helps Charles redo his back, keeps it as quick and perfunctory as possible even when Charles shivers under his hands. “You’re going to have a few more freckles, I think.”

“What’s a few more?” Charles twists when Erik is done to look down the back of his own shoulder, unconcerned by the prospect. “From far away I’ll look like I have a tan.”

They’re interrupted by a sudden flow of Arabic as Yasmin waves down a passing waiter, getting a nod in return as the man heads to the bar. “I had thought we could go in the city for dinner,” she says, and settles into her loungechair, crossing her legs casually as Ayyad comes to sit at her hip. “Last time we took Erik to a place that is very small, local, but I had thought we might use my expenses card for something special, since I am entertaining foreign business partners.”

“Oh! Yes, I wanted to talk to Ayyad and Soorayah about Dominance and submission culture here,” Charles says enthusiastically, and the two Arabic subs perk up even as Yasmin exaggerates a put-upon groan.

Erik goes for another swim after a while on the patio, lazily swims back and forth across the closest part of the pool in lengths and loses himself in the easy physical exertion of it while the light slowly dims into late afternoon. He only gets out when he notices the others are getting quiet, and goes to shower off the worst of the chlorine, comes back towelling his hair dry to find the rest of them putting their outerwear back on.

“Here,” Ayyad says when Charles has finished tugging his t-shirt back over his head, and gestures for Charles to come closer. When he stands up he towers over Charles, and plucks the headscarf from his hand after a quick questioning glance that has Charles happily offering it over. “Like this,” and Ayyad lays the fabric over Charles’ hair, adjusting it until it covers his hairline, one end longer than the other. Soorayah hands him a set of pins from her bag without a word, and the fabric is fastened at the base of Charles’ skull, then the loose ends pulled forward over his shoulders. 

“Most of us wear an elasticated cap underneath to help, but this will grip well for your wavy hair,” Ayyad says, and tugs the left end under Charles’ chin, pinning it at his right temple, then the longer right end under and up and over his head so that the tasselled end is dangling there, and pins it with one plain needle first, offering the rest of the set to Charles. “Which would you like?”

There’s an array of different decorative pins with dangling ornaments, and Charles picks out one in plain silver, one blue stone caught in the tip of it. Sure fingers slide it through the fabric without so much as nicking the skin, and Ayyad steps back with a nod of satisfaction. “There. Good.”

Charles is smiling, a real sense of warm happiness coming from him so strongly that Erik can tell when the others feel it, because they start smiling back, looking almost puzzled as to why. “Thank you very much,” Charles says, reaching up to run his hands across the smooth plains of fabric and the deliberate ripples of it, flicking the decorations with his fingernail so they swing and sway. “Erik, what do you think?”

“Very modest,” Erik says, but he smiles back, too, with his own warmth in it to augment Charles’. His sub looks very different like this, in a properly-fastened hijab, foreign and new - where Ayyad and Soorayah wear it naturally it leaves Charles changed, only his face exposed to show his pale skin and bright eyes, hair hidden entirely. “I’ll wear your hat, you don’t want to cover up Ayyad’s work with that ratty old thing.”

“My hat isn’t ratty,” Charles protests, but hands it over anyway, then with an impish grin he sets it on Erik’s head himself and adds a decorative pin from Ayyad’s set to dangle at Erik’s temple. “Very modest,” he says mock-seriously, and all three Arabs laugh at the look on Erik’s face.

They go back to the hotel to get changed before dinner, which is held at a table, not on the floor like the last time. Rather than kneeling Charles joins them at the same level, sat at Erik’s side, and though Charles follows through on his threat of picking up Erik’s submissive’s expression conversation over _warak enab_ and _shanklish_ , Erik has a good time arguing with Ayyad in a friendly manner over the intersection of Jewish and Muslim culture. He’s not practicing himself, but he knows enough to make it interesting, and where he stumbles remembering details his mother taught him as a child Charles subtly nudges the memories he’s fishing for to the front of his mind, lingers long enough to taste them for himself curiously even while maintaining his own conversation with the women.

“Your mother has passed?” Ayyad asks, and his expression turns sympathetic when Erik’s mouth tightens before saying yes. “Ah. And now your family is the sister who sent your Charles to you?”

“Much to my despair,” Erik says as jovially as he can, but thinking of Emma is enough to remind Erik of the conversation he had with Warren two days ago, and he feels as much as sees Charles perk up with sudden focus when he catches the thought, the slight frown on that familiar face. _Later,_ Erik thinks, and continues the conversation as though it hadn’t happened.

It’s late when they finally finish dinner, and Yasmin extracts a promise from them to come out again some time during the week, one Erik fully intends to keep. They say their goodbyes on the kerbside, and then it’s he and Charles alone in the back of a taxi going back to the hotel, flying through the night streets, well-fed and content.

Charles lets it ride until they get into the room, and even then he doesn’t ask, just takes Erik’s jacket and hangs it up in the wardrobe along with his own, then, when Erik sits down on the edge of the bed, kneels and unlaces his shoes, glancing up at Erik through his lashes as he slides the brogues from Erik’s feet, sets them aside too.

“They’re really nice,” he says eventually, and comes to stand in front of Erik, reaching for the pins at his temple. He unwinds the hijab like unwrapping a present, voluminous fabric loosening around his head until it slides down in folds around his neck, leaving his hair freed and dishevelled, wavier even than normal where it’s dried confined. “I’m really glad I came.”

“So am I,” and Erik reaches for him then, hooks his fingers through Charles’ belt loops and tugs him into the space between Erik’s thighs, then pulls his head down for a kiss. It’s odd to be the lower of the two of them, but Charles submits as easily as ever, lets Erik have control of the kiss without complaint, just leans forward into Erik’s hand cupping his hip and lays his own hands on Erik’s shoulders.

There’s a sharp, burning pain, and Erik jerks back with a hiss, Charles’ hands immediately flying up and away from him. “Oh, I forgot the sunburn,” Charles says apologetically, biting at his lower lip, and Erik winces as he undoes his own shirt buttons, slipping off the fabric to reveal the skin red and angry from where he’s caught the sun.

Erik shrugs, and even that’s sore now that he’s reminded of the burn, like his skin is two sizes too small for his bones. “It’s fine, so did I.” When he prods at it the redness is replaced by white where his fingertip has been for the first moment, before fading back to red.

“I’ll get the aftersun.” Charles goes into the bathroom to fetch it, padding away on bare feet. Erik strips out of the rest of his clothes down to his underwear, folds and lays them aside to put away later. He climbs onto the bed and lies himself facedown as Charles comes back in, folding his arms under his head and turning it to the side so he can breathe.

“Climb up here and serve me,” he says, and there’s a sharp intake of breath from behind him, followed by a rustle of clothes being removed. “Put them with mine, neatly.” 

He lets his eyes slip closed as the mattress shifts under him, rocking back and forth a little as Charles moves up the bed to hover over him - his sub hesitates for a moment before settling down on Erik’s thighs, straddling them and sitting back on his haunches. There’s a thin layer of silk between his crotch and Erik’s skin, a little damp with sweat from the heat and hiding very little. He’s heavy, but pleasantly so, and he doesn’t mind the weight.

Erik sighs, and there’s a brief sound of a bottle being shaken before cool, slick hands land on his shoulders, tentative at first then firmer when he doesn’t squirm despite the pain of the sunburn. Charles has great hands - broad and workmanlike but for the softness of his academic’s palms, unused to hard labour. He runs his hands over the expanse of Erik’s back first, leaving behind a layer of aftersun lotion before he comes back to the sides of Erik’s neck and starts to rub.

There’s a steady murmur of Charles’ thoughts in the background as though far away, mostly images of Erik’s shoulders and the line of his spine, pleasure at serving Erik’s needs and the flesh under his touch, knowing Erik could roll over at any time and bear him down, overpower him, but that for now he’s quiescent and rolling into the firm press of Charles’ thumbs along the lines of his trapezius. Charles pushes down on a stubborn knot until it loosens, and Erik groans, moves under Charles and feels his own cock in the no-space between his body and the mattress, above him the weight of Charles’ half-hard erection against his buttock, testes resting in the crease between Erik’s ass and thigh. He’s lax and boneless, feels predatory when he cracks open an eye to look up at Charles over his shoulder and it sends a shiver of anticipation down Charles’ frame, caught in his gaze like the most willing of prey.

Under a smokescreen of surface thought about the massage, Erik judges what he wants most against what he can hear from Charles - he considers getting Charles to fuck him, the least effort for the greatest reward now that he’s so relaxed, but he can hear the tense longing in Charles’ mind as he frets over the idea of being overwhelmed, Erik simply taking over control with physical force, and they have all week.

Before Charles can pick up on it Erik flexes his arms and shoves upward under him, twisting to grab onto Charles’ forearms and tumbling him over onto the mattress, swinging his own calf down over the backs of Charles’ legs to pin them down and pinning him underneath Erik’s body with hands braced on his shoulders to press him down hard. Charles doesn’t let out so much as a sound, but his breath shudders loudly between them as he’s trapped, fingers scrabbling at the sheets until Erik moves to capture both his wrists and hold them down with one hand above Charles’ head, waits until Charles stops squirming before leaning down and biting the back of his neck hard enough to bruise. This time Charles whimpers and every muscle in his body relaxes, goes loose and limp under Erik.

“Are you going to be a good boy?” he murmurs, and licks the bitemark with a broad swipe of his tongue, blows on the wet skin after. “Or am I going to have to be hard on you?”

Charles bucks up against him, and Erik’s cock rides the crease of his ass through the fabric of his briefs for the moment until Erik presses him down again more fiercely, trapping him there. “If you want me to let you have the rest of your presents you’re going to have to behave,” Erik says, and Charles yields. His arousal is thick between them in the room, spreading from his mind to Erik’s like a heavy itch that needs scratching, sweet-tasting desire. “If I get up, will you stay where I put you?” he asks. Charles hesitates, clearly torn between submission and playing up to get forced back down again. Erik’s mouth twitches, and he lets go, climbs off the bed to go to the dresser where Charles put his last three boxes, unopened. The sixth one he leaves there, but the fourth and fifth one - he has ideas for these.

He turns around to find Charles is bolting for the bathroom, and Charles almost gets past him before Erik tosses the boxes towards the bed and grabs him around the waist with one arm, growling wordlessly as his captive tries not to laugh and then moan when Erik tosses him back onto the mattress bodily alongside the boxes. He steps in close and fights him down, manhandling his shorter sub back onto his belly with hands that slip on sweat-slick skin, wrestling his limbs until Erik has him effectively caught once again, trapped under the weight of Erik’s greater bulk and strength.

Once he has him pinned he ruts against Charles’ ass, presses in hard so that the tip of his erection catches on Charles’ hole through the fabric, grinding him down onto the bed. It feels intensely good, arousal pooling in the pit of his stomach as he does it again, tingling spreading through his body. “Now, is that any way to behave?” Erik says conversationally, and Charles moans. His thighs are spread wide by Erik’s knees forcing them open from behind, too far for him to get any leverage - Erik has trapped his hands again, uses his free hand to press Charles’ shoulders down towards the mattress so that his back is arched awkwardly, ass raised against Erik’s crotch. “And me about to give you presents, too.”

“Please,” Charles gets out, voice muffled by the bed. Erik reaches for the fourth box with his mind, dragging it across the bedclothes so that the contents rattle together. “Please, Erik, can I have my presents.”

Erik snorts, nudges Charles’ legs further with his knees until his submissive whines at the stretch, splayed open and vulnerable. “I bought them for you, I’ll let you have them.”

The box is made of painted white metal, punctured with a star and moon pattern that’s supposed to let light out of it when a candle is put inside, but Erik had lined it with red tissue paper, thickly enough to hide the contents from prying eyes. The lid unlatches easily, a simple hook and eye he can open without needing to touch it. The contents he lifts by hand - he has to remove his hold from Charles’ shoulders and makes sure to squeeze harder on his sub’s wrists in warning, but Charles stays where he’s been put this time, chest heaving and his hips rubbing him back against Erik, up and down the length of Erik’s hard cock.

“Hold still,” Erik says, and puts the two parts of the present aside so he can hook his fingers around the waistband of Charles’ silk briefs and drag them down his ass to leave it exposed, the fabric bunched under the curve of it like a cradle. “I had thought to make you keep this in all night and day at work, but since you’re here we can have a little more direct punishment for your misbehaviour.”

Lubing it up is a little difficult one-handed, but he manages without having to let go of Charles entirely, and waits to touch the on button until the very tip of the love egg is pressed to Charles’ tight hole. As soon as he turns it on it buzzes powerfully - the sound of it is incredible, a loud low hum that is almost drowned out by Charles’ shocked gasp. Erik pushes it forward against the muscle’s resistance until it pops slickly inside of that puckered hole, and Charles clenches down around it once it’s in, jolts violently at the sensation and lets out a strangled sound from between gritted teeth.

“I can control it remotely,” Erik says, and bends forward to kiss the bite mark he already left on Charles’ spine while his sub shudders and moans under him, writhing against something he can’t escape from. Erik holds him there and mouths his way down, biting and sucking hickeys down the line of Charles’ back, his heaving shoulderblades and the backs of his shoulders, laving firm lines along his straining biceps. “Over the internet. You would just have it in you like a little weight, a little stretch, and think I had let you off lightly, but I was going to wait until you were at work and then turn it on so gently you weren’t even sure it was on, just a faint vibration inside of you throughout office hours until suddenly, when you were going home on the train, it would turn on full for a second.”

Erik thrusts forward and groans in Charles’ ear, riding the pleasure of it. “I liked thinking about you shouting on the train and everyone else wondering what was wrong with you. You would flush and try to hide it, but then, a few minutes later, I would turn it on for a few seconds more, then once you were out in the suburbs, for a full minute, until by the time you got home it would be on full constantly, and you would be sweating and trying not to moan - ”

Charles is moaning now, gasping and rubbing back against Erik’s cock, up and down, and Erik encourages the motion with his hand on Charles’ hip, gritting his teeth against rising pressure, freeing himself from his boxers and frotting up against Charles’ ass. He can feel the egg through Charles’ flesh, vibrating fiercely, and he bends forward again to set his teeth to the back of Charles’ neck then bites down hard as he slips the head of his cock against Charles’ hole. On the next shudder he presses forward, just enough to penetrate him with the tip - Charles isn’t stretched for the whole thing, but the tip goes in so easily on the slick from the egg, and when Charles clenches down against the intrusion his body pushes the egg down against Erik’s cock right where he’s most sensitive. 

It’s overwhelming, intense beyond belief on the head of his cock. Erik shouts out loud as he loses it, orgasm hitting him in a wave as he comes just inside that tight entrance. He’s not in deep enough for it to stay in, and his semen overflows and slides out of Charles in thick dribbles, dripping copiously down his ass and onto the bed. When Erik pulls back from the overstimulation of the egg Charles’ hole is left clogged with white wet come, and Erik stares at it for a long minute, thinks about licking it away, the sight of it alone to make his cock twitch again and a little more come trickle out of him.

Charles is still moaning under him, painfully aroused. The egg isn’t pressed high enough to stimulate his prostate, and it’s not quite enough for him to come; Erik considers pushing his fingers through the mess to shove it in higher, but then Charles tugs against the hand holding his wrists.

The fifth box is a match to the fourth, but left in its bare copper, lined with green paper. Erik opens it while still trying to regain his breath, and reaches around under Charles’ heaving belly to slide the cock ring on over him where he’s hard and dripping, but, sex-clumsy, he fumbles it - tugs on Charles’ cock hard and sets the vibrating motor off early, and Charles comes with a bitten-off scream, clenching and thrusting hard into Erik’s hand as he shoots all over the sheets. His cock jerks with the strength of his orgasm, and he projects it helplessly, directly along their connection and over to Erik, who can’t manage more than a dribble of come from his own softening erection but feels as though he is coming dry, too, half-collapsing on top of Charles and forcing him down to the bed with the weight of Erik’s body.

He rolls off when he feels Charles’ gasps become less ragged and more serious need for air, lands on his back and stays there for a minute while he tries to recover the use of his faculties. His whole body feels limp from it, as though every bone in him has gone out with his boner. A hand gropes at his chest until it finds Erik’s, and he tangles his fingers together with Charles’ while they’re both incapacitated.

“Gah,” Charles says, and Erik tips his head in Charles’ direction to find Charles still on his front with his ass raised by the bend of his thighs, back pocked with reddening hickeys and a silly smile on his face.

“The things you let me do to you,” Erik says once he has enough breath, and Charles manages to move closer, untucks his legs and drapes himself across Erik’s torso until their legs are tangled together again and he can rest his head beside Erik’s on the pillow. Erik reaches down to stroke a hand down Charles’ back and tucks his fingers inside Charles’ filthy hole to tug out the still-buzzing egg, wriggling in and stretching Charles to get a grip on it before sliding it out. He turns it off with a press of his thumb and abandons it on the already ruined bedclothes, moves his hand back to rest on Charles’ buttock, strokes it with that same thumb.

Charles mumbles something as he worms his way closer, then, when Erik doesn’t respond, says again, louder, “What’s in my last present?”

“I’m not getting up to get it,” Erik says, and laughs when Charles scowls and doesn’t get up either. “If you want it so badly you can fetch it yourself. Maybe I’ll order you.”

The scowl deepens. “Nooooooo.”

Erik raises an eyebrow. “I don’t like no. Get up and go fetch me the box from the dresser, Charles.”

His sub is well-behaved enough that he only lets a few seconds pass before he pushes himself up onto his heels, revealing his come-spattered front side as he sits over Erik. His underwear is still bunched around his thighs, and Charles doesn’t straighten it even when he gets up and wobbles a little over to the dresser, taking the final box and bringing it back over to Erik. He lies back down as soon as he reaches the bed, snuggles back in close and goes limp now his task is done, the box resting in the curve of his stomach where he’s turned towards Erik.

The sixth and final box is made of fine dark oak, and instead of square is sloped on one side except for a drawer at the bottom with a little iron handle. It’s heavy, too, solid. “Open it,” Erik says, and Charles reaches for the handle, pulling the drawer open. As soon as he does the sloped side lifts on smooth hinges - Erik had used a little beeswax for polish and to ensure it moved smoothly - to reveal the shelved inside, which has spaces for letters and paper of different sizes, and a round hollow for an inkwell. “It’s a writing box,” he says when Charles is silent, and runs his finger along the edge of one of the shelves, which has been smoothed out so there are no rough edges. “I thought you might like it.”

“It’s wonderful,” Charles says quietly, and his smile is lovely, even before he plucks the pen from its groove in the drawer and sees the Montblanc logo. “Oh! Erik, this must have been expensive - ”

“I thought you might like it,” Erik repeats, and pushes the drawer back in so the lid folds down again, turns his head to press a kiss to Charles’ hairline. “I’m glad it made the trip here alright - Azazel is a much smoother ride than an airplane, it’s true, but this is pretty old. So.”

The deflection is not enough to satisfy Charles, though. He rolls onto his belly on top of Erik and looks down at him with an expression Erik has no idea how to read, setting the box aside on the nightstand where it will be safe. “Every time I think I have you all figured out,” his sub murmurs, and he sounds wondering, but not unhappy.

“Emma always says I’m a mystery,” Erik says dryly, watches Charles rise and fall atop him on each inhale, riding out the motion.

“I certainly hope you don’t give her these kinds of presents,” Charles says, and grins stupidly down at Erik until he reaches up to grab his sub and pull him down for a kiss.

 

~*~

 

They spend the week as wisely as they can, but it’s still over too quickly. The only thing that makes coming home worthwhile is Erik getting to give Azazel his best threatening-friendly grin, showing all his teeth, and Azazel pretending not to notice but very carefully going no closer to Charles than he absolutely has to to get them back to New York, and leaving fairly quickly after.

“Really, Erik,” Charles says, but though he sounds exasperated he’s trying not to smile, flushed with just a little pleasure at the proprietary nature of the exchange.

“Really,” Erik says, and then, “Go kneel in the kitchen and let’s see what Moira’s left us to eat.”

Charles goes gladly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Charles' writing box](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/tahariel/1683233/26313/original.jpg)
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>  
> 
> [The Wild Wadi Water Park in Dubai](http://www.jumeirah.com/en/Hotels-and-Resorts/Wild-Wadi-Dubai-Water-Park/Gallery/), which I used as inspiration (I've never been to Dubai, but I want to go now!)


End file.
